THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


PLAYS  BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


THE  SILVER  BOX 

JOY 

STRIFE 

JUSTICE 

THE  LITTLE  DREAM 

THE  ELDEST  SON 

THE  PIGEON 


THE    PIGEON 

A  FANTASY  IN  THREE  ACTS 


THE    PIGEON 

A    FANTASY    IN    THREE    ACTS 
BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


"...  Without  that,  Monsieur,  all  is 
dry  as  a  parched  akin   of  orange.'- 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

First  Impression  February,  1912 

Second  Impression  April,  1912 

Third  Impression  September,  1912 

Fourth  Impression  May,  1913 


College 
library 


6013 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

CHRISTOPHER  WELLWYN,  an  artist 
ANN,  his  daughter 
GUINEVERE  MEGAN,  a  flower-setter 
RORY  MEGAN,  her  husband 
FERRAND,  an  alien 
TIMSON,  once  a  cabman 
EDWARD  BERTLEY,  a  Canon 
ALFRED  CALWAY,  a  Professor 
SIR  THOMAS  HOXTON,  a  Justice  of  the  Peace 
Also  a  police  constable,  three  humble-men,  and  some 
curious  persons 

The  action  passes  in  Wellwyn's  Studio,  and  the  street  out- 
side. 

ACT      I.  Christmas  Eve. 
ACT    II.  New  Year's  Day. 
ACT  III.  The  First  of  April 


572018 


CAST  OF  THE  FIRST  PRODUCTION 


BY 

MESSRS.  J.  E.  VEDRENNE  AND  DENNIS  EADIE 

AT    THE 

ROYALTY  THEATRE,  LONDON,  ON  JANUARY  SOra,  1912 


CHRISTOPHER  WELLWYN 

ANN 

FERRAND 

TIMSON 

MRS.  MEGAN 

MEGAN 

CANON  BERTLET 

PROFESSOR  CALWAY 

SIR  THOMAS  HOXTON 

POLICE  CONSTABLE 

FIRST  HUMBLE-MAN 

SECOND  HUMBLE-MAN 

THIRD  HUMBLE-MAN 

A  LOAFER 


MR.  WHITFORD  KANE 
Miss  GLADYS  COOPER 
MR.  DENNIS  EADIE 
MR.  WILFRED  SHINE 
Miss  MARGARET  MORRIS 
MR.  STANLEY  LOGAN 
MR.  HUBERT  HARBEN 
MR.  FRANK  VERNON 
MR.  FREDERICK  LLOYD 
MR.  ARTHUR  B.  MURRAY 
MR.  W.  LEMMON  WARDE 
MR.  F.  B.  J.  SHARP 
MR.  ARTHUR  BOWYER 
MR.  ARTHUR  BAXENDELL 


ACT  I 

It  is  the  night  of  Christmas  Eve,  the  SCENE  is  a  Studio, 
flush  with  the  street,  having  a  skylight  darkened  by  a 
fall  of  snow.  There  is  no  one  in  the  room,  the  walls 
of  which  are  whitewashed,  above  a  floor  of  bare  dark 
boards.  A  fire  is  cheerfully  burning.  On  a  model's 
platform  stands  an  easel  and  canvas.  There  are 
busts  and  pictures;  a  screen,  a  little  stool,  two  arm- 
chairs, and  a  long  old-fashioned  settle  under  the  win- 
dow. A  door  in  one  wall  leads  to  the  house,  a  door 
in  the  opposite  wall  to  the  model's  dressing-room,  and 
the  street  door  is  in  the  centre  of  the  wall  between. 
On  a  low  table  a  Russian  samovar  is  hissing,  and 
beside  it  on  a  tray  stands  a  teapot,  with  glasses, 
lemon,  sugar,  and  a  decanter  of  rum.  Through  a 
huge  uncurtained  window  close  to  the  street  door  the 
snowy  lamplit  street  can  be  seen,  and  beyond  it  the 
river  and  a  night  of  stars. 

The  sound  of  a  latchkey  turned  in  the  lock  of  the  street 
door,  and  ANN  WELLWYN  enters,  a  girl  of  seventeen, 
with  hair  tied  in  a  ribbon  and  covered  by  a  scarf. 
Leaving  the  door  open,  she  turns  up  the  electric  light 
and  goes  to  the  fire.  She  throws  off  her  scarf  and 
long  red  cloak.  She  is  dressed  in  a  high  evening 
frock  of  some  soft  white  material.  Her  movements 
1 


2  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

\ 

are  quick  and,  substantial.  Her  face,  full  of  no  non- 
sense, is  decided  and  sincere,  with  deep-set  eyes,  and 
a  capable,  well-shaped  forehead.  Shredding  off  her 
gloves  she  warms  her  hands. 

In  the  doorway  appear  the  figures  of  two  men.  The  first 
is  rather  short  and  slight,  with  a  soft  short  beard, 
bright  soft  eyes,  and  a  crumply  face.  Under  his 
squash  hat  his  hair  is  rather  plentiful  and  rather 
grey.  He  wears  an  old  brown  ulster  and  woollen 
gloves,  and  is  puffing  at  a  hand-made  cigarette.  He 
is  ANN'S  father,  WELLWYN,  the  artist.  His  com- 
panion is  a  well-wrapped  clergyman  of  medium 
height  and  stoutish  build,  with  a  pleasant,  rosy  face, 
rather  shining  eyes,  and  rather  chubby  clean-shaped 
lips;  in  appearance,  indeed,  a  grown-up  boy.  He 
is  the  Vicar  of  the  parish — CANON  BEKTLEY. 

BERTLEY.  My  dear  Wellwyn,  the  whole  question  of 
reform  is  full  of  difficulty.  When  you  have  two  men 
like  Professor  Calway  and  Sir  Thomas  Hoxton  taking 
diametrically  opposite  points  of  view,  as  we've  seen 
to-night,  I  confess,  I 

WELLWYN.  Come  in,  Vicar,  and  have  some  grog. 

BERTLEY.  Not  to-night,  thanks!  Christmas  to- 
morrow !  Great  temptation,  though,  this  room !  Good- 
night, Wellwyn;  good-night,  Ann! 

ANN.  [Coming  from  the  fire  towards  the  tea-table.] 
Good-night,  Canon  Bertley. 

[He  goes  out,  and  WELLWYN,  shutting  the  door 
after  him,  approaches  the  fire. 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  3 

ANN.  [Sitting  on  the  little  stool,  with  her  back  to  the 
fire,  and  making  tea.]  Daddy! 

WELLWYN.  My  dear? 

ANN.  You  say  you  liked  Professor  Calway's  lec- 
ture. Is  it  going  to  do  you  any  good,  that's  the 
question? 

WELLWYN.  I — I  hope  so,  Ann. 

ANN.  I  took  you  on  purpose.  Your  charity's  get- 
ting simply  awful.  Those  two  this  morning  cleared  out 
all  my  housekeeping  money. 

WELLWYN.  Um!  Um!  I  quite  understand  your 
feeling. 

ANN.  They  both  had  your  card,  so  I  couldn't  refuse 
— didn't  know  what  you'd  said  to  them.  Why  don't 
you  make  it  a  rule  never  to  give  your  card  to  anyone 
except  really  decent  people,  and — picture  dealers,  of 
course. 

WELLWYN.  My  dear,  I  have — often. 

ANN.  Then  why  don't  you  keep  it?  It's  a  frightful 
habit.  You  are  naughty,  Daddy.  One  of  these  days 
you'll  get  yourself  into  most  fearful  complications. 

WELLWYN.  My  dear,  when  they — when  they  look  at 
you? 

ANN.  You  know  the  house  wants  all  sorts  of  things. 
Why  do  you  speak  to  them  at  all? 

WELLWYN.  I  don't — they  speak  to  me. 

[He  takes  off  his  ulster  and  hangs  it  over  the  back 
of  an  arm-chair. 

ANN.  They  see  you  coming.  Anybody  can  see  you 
coming,  Daddy.  That's  why  you  ought  to  be  so 


4  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

careful.  I  shall  make  you  wear  a  hard  hat.  Those 
squashy  hats  of  yours  are  hopelessly  inefficient. 

WELLWYN.  [Gazing  at  his  hat.]  Calway  wears  one. 

ANN.  As  if  anyone  would  beg  of  Professor  Cal- 
way. 

WELLWYN.  Well — perhaps  not.  You  know,  Ann,  I 
admire  that  fellow.  Wonderful  power  of — of — theory ! 
How  a  man  can  be  so  absolutely  tidy  in  his  mind!  It's 
most  exciting. 

ANN.  Has  any  one  begged  of  you  to-day? 

WELLWYN.  [Doubtfully.]  No — no. 

ANN.  [After  a  long,  severe  look.]  Will  you  have  rum 
in  your  tea? 

WELLWYN.  [Crestfallen.]  Yes,  my  dear — a  good  deal. 

ANN.  [Pouring  out  the  rum,  and  handing  him  the  glass.] 
Well,  who  was  it? 

WELLWYN.  He  didn't  beg  of  me.  [Losing  himself  in 
recollection.]  Interesting  old  creature,  Ann — real  type. 
Old  cabman. 

ANN.  Where? 

WELLWYN.  Just  on  the  Embankment. 

ANN.  Of  course!  Daddy,  you  know  the  Embank- 
ment ones  are  always  rotters. 

WELLWYN.  Yes,  my  dear;  but  this  wasn't. 

ANN.  Did  you  give  him  your  card? 

WELLWYN.  I — I — don't 

ANN.  Did  you,  Daddy? 

WELLWTN.  I'm  rather  afraid  I  may  have! 

ANN.  May  have!     It's  simply  immoral. 

WELLWTN.  Well,  the  old  fellow  was  so  awfully  hu- 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  5 

man,  Ann.    Besides,  I  didn't  give  him  any  money — 
hadn't  got  any. 

ANN.  Look  here,  Daddy!  Did  you  ever  ask  any- 
body for  anything?  You  know  you  never  did,  you'd 
starve  first.  So  would  anybody  decent.  Then,  why 
won't  you  see  that  people  who  beg  are  rotters? 

WELLWYN.  But,  my  dear,  we're  not  all  the  same.  They 
wouldn't  do  it  if  it  wasn't  natural  to  them.  One  likes  to 
be  friendly.  What's  the  use  of  being  alive  if  one  isn't? 

ANN.  Daddy,  you're  hopeless. 

WELLWTN.  But,  look  here,  Ann,  the  whole  thing's  so 
jolly  complicated.  According  to  Calway,  we're  to  give 
the  State  all  we  can  spare,  to  make  the  undeserving 
deserving.  He's  a  Professor;  he  ought  to  know.  But 
old  Hoxton's  always  dinning  it  into  me  that  we  ought 
to  support  private  organisations  for  helping  the  deserv- 
ing, and  damn  the  undeserving.  Well,  that's  just  the 
opposite.  And  he's  a  J.P.  Tremendous  experience. 
And  the  Vicar  seems  to  be  for  a  little  bit  of  both.  Well, 
what  the  devil — ?  My  trouble  is,  whichever  I'm  with, 
he  always  converts  me.  [Ruefully.]  And  there's  no  fun 
in  any  of  them. 

ANN.  [Rising.]  Oh!  Daddy,  you  are  so — don't  you 
know  that  you're  the  despair  of  all  social  reformers? 
[She  envelops  him.]  There's  a  tear  in  the  left  knee  of 
your  trousers.  You're  not  to  wear  them  again. 

WELLWYN.  Am  I  likely  to? 

ANN.  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  it  isn't  your 
only  pair.     D'you  know  what  I  live  in  terror  of? 
[WELLWYN  gives  her  a  queer  and  apprehensive  look. 


6  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

ANN.  That  you'll  take  them  off  some  day,  and  give 
them  away  in  the  street.  Have  you  got  any  money? 
[She  feels  in  his  coat,  and  he  is  his  trousers — they  find 
nothing.}  Do  you  know  that  your  pockets  are  one  enor- 
mous hole? 

WELLWTN.  No! 

ANN.  Spiritually. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!    Ah!    H'm! 

ANN.  [Severely.]  Now,  look  here,  Daddy!  [She  takes 
him  by  his  lappels.]  Don't  imagine  that  it  isn't  the  most 
disgusting  luxury  on  your  part  to  go  on  giving  away 
things  as  you  do!  You  know  what  you  really  are,  I 
suppose — a  sickly  sentimentalist! 

WELLWYN.  [Breaking  away  from  her,  disturbed.]  It 
isn't  sentiment.  It's  simply  that  they  seem  to  me 
so — so — jolly.  If  I'm  to  give  up  feeling  sort  of 
— nice  in  here  [he  touches  his  chest]  about  people — it 
doesn't  matter  who  they  are — then  I  don't  know 
what  I'm  to  do.  I  shall  have  to  sit  with  my  head 
in  a  bag. 

ANN.  I  think  you  ought  to. 

WELLWYN.  I  suppose  they  see  I  like  them — then 
they  tell  me  things.  After  that,  of  course  you  can't 
help  doing  what  you  can. 

ANN.  Well,  if  you  will  love  them  up! 

WELLWYN.  My  dear,  I  don't  want  to.  It  isn't  them 
especially — why,  I  feel  it  even  with  old  Calway  some- 
times. It's  only  Providence  that  he  doesn't  want  any- 
thing of  me — except  to  make  me  like  himself — con- 
found him! 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  7 

ANN.  [Moving  towards  the  door  into  the  house — im- 
pressively.] What  you  don't  see  is  that  other  people 
aren't  a  bit  like  you. 
WELLWYN.  Well,  thank  God! 

ANN.  It's  so  old-fashioned  too!    I'm  going  to  bed — 
I  just  leave  you  to  your  conscience. 
WELLWYN.  Oh! 

ANN.  [Opening     the     door — severely.]  Good-night — 
[with  a  certain  weakening]  you  old — Daddy! 

[She  jumps  at  him,  gives  him  a  hug,  and  goes  out. 

[WELLWYN  stands  perfectly  still.     He  first  gazes 

up  at  the  skylight,  then  down  at  the  floor.    Slowly 

he  begins  to  shake  his  head,  and  mutter,  as  he 

moves  towards  the  fire. 

WELLWYN.  Bad  lot.  .  .  .  Low  type — no  backbone, 
no  stability! 

[There  comes  a  fluttering  knock  on  the  outer  door. 
As  the  sound  slowly  enters  his  consciousness,  he 
begins  to  wince,  as  though  he  knew,  but  would 
not  admit  its  significance.  Then  he  sits  down, 
covering  his  ears.  The  knocking  does  not  cease. 
WELLWYN  drops  first  one,  then  both  hands,  rises, 
and  begins  to  sidle  towards  the  door.  The  knock- 
ing becomes  louder. 
WELLWYN.  Ah  dear!  Tt!  Tt!  Tt! 

[After  a  look  in  the  direction  of  ANN'S  disap- 
pearance, he  opens  the  street  door  a  very  little  way. 
By  the  light  of  the  lamp  there  can  be  seen  a  young 
girl  in  dark  clothes,  huddled  in  a  shawl  to  which 


8  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

the  snow  is  clinging.     She  has  on  her  arm  a  bas- 
ket covered  with  a  bit  of  sacking. 
WELLWYN.  I  can't,  you  know;  it's  impossible. 

[The  girl  says  nothing,  but  looks  at  him  with  dark 

eyes. 

WELLWYN.  [Wincing.]  Let's  see — I  don't  know  you 
—do  I? 

[The  girl,  speaking  in  a  soft,  hoarse  voice,  with  a 
faint  accent  of  reproach:  "Mrs.  Megan — you 
give  me  this — "  She  holds  out  a  dirty  visiting 
card. 

WELLWYN.  [Recoiling  from  the  card.]  Oh!  Did  I? 
Ah!  When? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  You  'ad  some  vi'lets  off  of  me  larst 
spring.  You  give  me  'arf  a  crown. 

[A  smile  tries  to  visit  her  face. 

WELLWYN.  [Looking  stealthily  round.]  Ah!  Well, 
come  in — just  for  a  minute — it's  very  cold — and  tell  us 
what  it  is. 

[She  comes  in  stolidly,  a  sphinx-like  figure,  with 

her  pretty  tragic  little  face. 

WELLWYN.  I  don't  remember  you.  [Looking  closer.] 
Yes,  I  do.    Only — you  weren't  the  same — were  you? 
MRS.  MEGAN.  [Dully.]  I  seen  trouble  since. 
WELLWYN.  Trouble!    Have  some  tea? 

[He  looks  anxiously  at  the  door  into  the  house,  tiien 
goes  quickly  to  the  table,  and  pours  out  a  glass  of 
tea,  putting  rum  into  it. 

WELLWYN.  [Handing  her  the  tea.]  Keeps  the  cold  out! 
Drink  it  off! 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  9 

[MRS.  MEGAN  drinks  it  off,  chokes  a  little,  and 
almost  immediately  seems  to  get  a  size  larger. 
WELLWYN  watches  her  with  his  head  held  on 
one  side,  and  a  smile  broadening  on  his  face. 

WELLWYN.  Cure  for  all  evils,  urn? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  It  warms  you.  [She  smiles. 

WELLWYN.  [Smiling  back,  and  catching  himself  out.] 
Well!    You  know,  I  oughtn't. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Conscious  of  the  disruption  of  his  per- 
sonality, and  withdrawing  into  her  tragic  abyss.]  I 
wouldn't  'a  come,  but  you  told  me  if  I  wanted  an 
'and 

WELLWYN.  [Gradually  losing  himself  in  his  own  na- 
ture.] Let  me  see — corner  of  Flight  Street,  wasn't  it? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [With  faint  eagerness.]  Yes,  sir,  an' 
I  told  you  about  me  vi'lets — it  was  a  luvly  spring 
day. 

WELLWYN.  Beautiful!  Beautiful!  Birds  singing, 
and  the  trees,  &c.!  We  had  quite  a  talk.  You  had  a 
baby  with  you. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes.     I  got  married  since  then. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  Ah!  Yes!  [Cheerfully.]  And  how's 
the  baby? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Turning  to  stone.]  I  lost  her. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  poor —    Um! 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Impassive.]  You  said  something 
abaht  makin'  a  picture  of  me.  [With  faint  eagerness.] 
So  I  thought  I  might  come,  in  case  you'd  forgotten. 

WELLWYN.  [Looking  at  her  intently.]  Things  going 
badly? 


10  THE   PIGEON  ACT  i 

MBS.  MEGAN.  [Stripping  the  sacking  off  her  basket.] 
I  keep  'em  covered  up,  but  the  cold  gets  to  'em. 
Thruppence — that's  all  I've  took. 

WELLWYN.  Ho!    Tt!    Tt!    [He  looks  into  the  basket.} 
Christmas,  too! 
MRS.  MEGAN.  They're  dead. 

WELLWYN.  [Drawing  in  his  breath.]  Got  a  good  hus- 
band? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  He  plays  cards. 
WELLWYN.  Oh,  Lord !    And  what  are  you  doing  out 
— with  a  cold  like  that?  [He  taps  his  chest. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  We  was  sold  up  this  morning — he's 
gone  off  with  'is  mates.  Haven't  took  enough  yet  for 
a  night's  lodgin'. 

WELLWYN.  [Correcting  a  spasmodic  dive  into  his 
pockets.]  But  who  buys  flowers  at  this  time  of  night? 

[MBS.  MEGAN  looks  at  him,  and  faintly  smiles. 
WELLWYN.  [Rumpling   his  hair.]  Saints  above   us! 
Here!    Come  to  the  fire! 

[She  follows  him  to  the  fire.     He  shuts  the  street 

door. 

WELLWYN.  Are  your  feet  wet?  [She  nods.]  Well,  sit 
down  here,  and  take  them  off.  That's  right. 

[She  sits  on  the  stool.  And  after  a  slow  look  up  at 
him,  which  has  in  it  a  deeper  knowledge  than 
belongs  of  right  to  her  years,  begins  taking  off 
her  shoes  and  stockings.  WELLWYN  goes  to  the 
door  into  the  house,  opens  it,  and  listens  with  a 
sort  of  stealthy  casualness.  He  returns  whis- 
tling, but  not  out  loud.  The  girl  has  finished  tak- 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  11 

ing  off  her  stockings,  and  turned  her  bare  toes 
to  the  flames.  She  shuffles  them  back  under  her 
skirt. 

WELLWYN.  How  old  are  you,  my  child? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Nineteen,  come  Candlemas. 

WELLWYN.  And  what's  your  name? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Guinevere. 

WELLWYN.  What?    Welsh? 

Mrs.  MEGAN.  Yes — from  Battersea. 

WELLWYN.  And  your  husband? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  No.  Irish,  'e  is.  Netting  Dale,  'e 
comes  from. 

WELLWYN.  Roman  Catholic? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes.  My  'usband's  an  atheist  as 
well. 

WELLWYN.  I  see.  [Abstractedly.]  How  jolly!  And 
how  old  is  he — this  young  man  of  yours? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  'E'll  be  twenty  soon. 

WELLWYN.  Babes  in  the  wood!  Does  he  treat  you 
badly? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  No. 

WELLWYN.  Nor  drink? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  No.  He's  not  a  bad  one.  Only  he 
gets  playin'  cards — then  'e'll  fly  the  kite. 

WELLWYN.  I  see.  And  when  he's  not  flying  it,  what 
does  he  do? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Touching  her  basket.]  Same  as  me. 
Other  jobs  tires  'im. 

WELLWYN.  That's  very  nice!  [He  checks  himself.] 
Well,  what  am  I  to  do  with  you? 


12  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Of  course,  I  could  get  me  night's 
lodging  if  I  like  to  do — the  same  as  some  of  them. 
WELLWYN.  No!  no!    Never,  my  child!    Never! 
MBS.  MEGAN.  It's  easy  that  way. 
WELLWYN.  Heavens!    But  your  husband !    Um? 
MBS.  MEGAN.  [With  stoical  vindictiveness.]  He's  after 
one  I  know  of. 

WELLWYN.  Tt!    What  a  pickle! 
MRS.  MEGAN.  I'll  'ave  to  walk  about  the  streets. 
WELLWYN.  [To  himself.]  Now  how  can  I? 

[MBS.  MEGAN  looks  up  and  smiles  at  him,  as  if 

she  had  already  discovered  that  he  is  peculiar. 
WELLWYN.  You  see,  the  fact  is,  I  mustn't  give  you 
anything — because — well,  for  one  thing  I  haven't  got 
it.  There  are  other  reasons,  but  that's  the — real  one. 
But,  now,  there's  a  little  room  where  my  models  dress. 
I  wonder  if  you  could  sleep  there.  Come,  and  see. 

[The  Girl  gets  up  lingeringly,  loth  to  leave  the 

warmth.     She  takes  up  her  wet  stockings. 
MBS.  MEGAN.  Shall  I  put  them  on  again? 
WELLWYN.  No,  no;    there's  a  nice  warm  pair  of 
slippers.  [Seeing  the  steam  rising  from  her.]  Why,  you're 
wet  all  over.    Here,  wait  a  little! 

[He  crosses  to  the  door  into  the  house,  and  after 
stealthy  listening,  steps  through.     The  Girl,  like 
a  cat,  steals  back  to  the  warmth  of  the  fire. 
WELLWYN  returns  with  a  candle,  a  canary- 
coloured  bath  gown,  and  two  blankets. 
WELLWYN.  Now  then!  [He  precedes  her  towards  the 
door  of  the  model's  room.]  Hsssh !  [He  opens  the  door  and 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  13 

holds  up  the  candle  to  show  her  the  room.]  Will  it  do? 
There's  a  couch.  You'll  find  some  washing  things. 
Make  yourself  quite  at  home.  See! 

[The  Girl,  perfectly  dumb,  passes  through  with  her 
basket — and  her  shoes  and  stockings.  WELLWYN 
hands  her  the  candle,  blankets,  and  bath  gown. 
WELLWYN.  Have  a  good  sleep,  child!    Forget  that 
you're  alive!  [He  closes  the  door,  mournfully.]  Done  it 
again!  [He  goes  to  the  table,  cuts  a  large  slice  of  cake, 
knocks   on   the   door,   and   hands   it   in.]  Chow-chow! 
[Then,  as  he  walks  away,  he  sights  the  opposite  door.} 
Well — damn  it,  what  could  I  have  done?    Not  a  far- 
thing on  me!  [He  goes  to  the  street  door  to  shut  it,  but  first 
opens  it  wide  to  confirm  himself  in  his  hospitality.]   Night 
like  this! 

[A  sputter  of  snow  is  blown  in  his  face.  A  voice 
says:  "Monsieur,  pardon!"  WELLWYN  re- 
coils spasmodically.  A  figure  moves  from  the 
lamp-post  to  the  doorway.  He  is  seen  to  be 
young  and  to  have  ragged  clothes.  He  speaks 
again:  "You  do  not  remember  me,  Monsieur? 
My  name  is  Ferrand — it  was  in  Paris,  in 
the  Champs-Elysees — by  the  fountain.  .  .  . 
When  you  came  to  the  door,  Monsieur — I  am 
not  made  of  iron.  .  .  .  Tenez,  here  is  your 
card — I  have  never  lost  it."  He  holds  out  to 
WELLWYN  an  old  and  dirty  visiting  card.  As 
inch  by  inch  he  has  advanced  into  the  doorway, 
the  light  from  within  falls  on  him,  a  tall  gaunt 
young  pagan  with  fair  hair  and  reddish  golden 


14  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

stubble  of  beard,  a  long  ironical  nose  a  little  to  one 
side,  and  large,  grey,  rather  prominent  eyes. 
There  is  a  certain  grace  in  his  figure  and  move- 
ments; his  clothes  are  nearly  dropping  off  him. 

WELLWYN.  [Yielding  to  a  pleasant  memory.}  Ah!  yes. 
By  the  fountain.  I  was  sitting  there,  and  you  came 
and  ate  a  roll,  and  drank  the  water. 

FEKRAND.  [With  faint  eagerness.]  My  breakfast.  I 
was  in  poverty — veree  bad  off.  You  gave  me  ten  francs. 
I  thought  I  had  a  little  the  right  [WELLWYN  makes  a 
movement  of  disconcertion],  seeing  you  said  that  if  I  came 
to  England 

WELLWYN.  Urn!    And  so  you've  come? 

FERKAND.  It  was  time  that  I  consolidated  my  for- 
tunes, Monsieur. 

WELLWYN.  And  you — have 

[He  stops  embarrassed. 

FERRAND.  [Shrugging  his  ragged  shoulders.]  One  is 
not  yet  Rothschild. 

WELLWYN.  [Sympathetically.]  No.  [Yielding  to  mem- 
ory.] We  talked  philosophy. 

FERRAND.  I  have  not  yet  changed  my  opinion.  We 
other  vagabonds,  we  are  exploited  by  the  bourgeois. 
This  is  always  my  idea,  Monsieur. 

WELLWYN.  Yes — not  quite  the  general  view,  per- 
haps! Well —  [Heartily.]  Come  in!  Very  glad  to  see 
you  again. 

FERRAND.  [Brushing  his  arms  over  his  eyes.]  Pardon, 
Monsieur — your  goodness — I  am  a  little  weak.  [He 
opens  his  coat,  and  shows  a  belt  drawn  very  tight  over  his 


ACT  i      ,  THE  PIGEON  15 

ragged  shirt.]    I  tighten  him  one  hole  for  each  meal, 
during  two  days  now.    That  gives  you  courage. 

WELLWYN.  [With  cooing  sounds,  pouring  out  tea,  and 

adding  rum.]  Have  some  of  this.     It'll  buck  you  up. 

[He  watches  the  young  man  drink. 

FERRAND.  [Becoming  a  size  larger.]  Sometimes  I 
think  that  I  will  never  succeed  to  dominate  my  life, 
Monsieur — though  I  have  no  vices,  except  that  I  guard 
always  the  aspiration  to  achieve  success.  But  I  will 
not  roll  myself  under  the  machine  of  existence  to  gain  a 
nothing  every  day.  I  must  find  with  what  to  fly  a  little. 

WELLWYN.  [Delicately.]  Yes;  yes — I  remember,  you 
found  it  difficult  to  stay  long  in  any  particular — yes. 

FERRAND.  [Proudly.]  In  one  little  corner?  No — 
Monsieur — never!  That  is  not  in  my  character.  I 
must  see  life. 

WELLWYN.  Quite,  quite!    Have  some  cake? 

[He  cuts  cake. 

FERRAND.  In  your  country  they  say  you  cannot  eat 
the  cake  and  have  it.  But  one  must  always  try,  Mon- 
sieur; one  must  never  be  content.  [Refusing  the  cake.] 
Grand  merci,  but  for  the  moment  I  have  no  stomach — 
I  have  lost  my  stomach  now  for  two  days.  If  I  could 
smoke,  Monsieur!  [He  makes  the  gesture  of  smoking. 

WELLWYN.  Rather!  [Handing  his  tobacco  pouch.] 
Roll  yourself  one. 

FERRAND.  [Rapidly  rolling  a  cigarette.]  If  I  had  not 
found  you,  Monsieur — I  would  have  been  a  little  hole 
in  the  river  to-night — I  was  so  discouraged.  [He  inhales 
and  puffs  a  long  luxurious  whiff  of  smoke.  Very  bitterly.] 


16  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

Life!  [He  disperses  the  puff  of  smoke  with  his  finger,  and 
stares  before  him.]  And  to  think  that  in  a  few  minutes 
HE  will  be  born !  Monsieur !  [He  gazes  intently  at  WELL- 
WYN.]  The  world  would  reproach  you  for  your  goodness 
to  me. 

WELLWTN.  [Looking  uneasily  at  the  door  into  the 
house.]    You  think  so?     Ah! 

FEBRAND.  Monsieur,  if  HE  himself  were  on  earth 
now,  there  would  be  a  little  heap  of  gentlemen  writing 
to  the  journals  every  day  to  call  Him  sloppee  senti- 
mentalist! And  what  is  veree  funny,  these  gentlemen 
they  would  all  be  most  strong  Christians.  [He  regards 
WELLWTN  deeply.]  But  that  will  not  trouble  you, 
Monsieur;  I  saw  well  from  the  first  that  you  are  no 
Christian.  You  have  so  kind  a  face. 
WELLWTN.  Oh!  Indeed! 

FERRAND.  You  have  not  enough  the  Pharisee  in  your 
character.    You  do  not  judge,  and  you  are  judged. 

[He  stretches  his  limbs  as  if  in  pain. 
WELLWTN.  Are  you  in  pain? 
FERRAND.  I  'ave  a  little  the  rheumatism 
WELLWTN.  Wet  through,  of  course!  [Glancing  tow- 
ards the  house.]  Wait  a  bit!    I  wonder  if  you'd  like 

these  trousers;   they've — er — they're  not  quite 

[He  passes  through  the  door  into  the  house.  FER- 
RAND stands  at  the  fire,  with  his  limbs  spread  as 
it  were  to  embrace  it,  smoking  with  abandonment. 
WELLWTN  returns  stealthily,  dressed  in  a  Jaeger 
dressing-gown,  and  bearing  a  pair  of  drawers, 
his  trousers,  a  pair  of  slippers,  and  a  sweater. 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  17 

WELLWYN.  [Speaking  in  a  low  voice,  for  the  door  is  still 
open.]  Can  you  make  these  do  for  the  moment? 

FEBRAND.  Je  vous  remercie,  Monsieur.  [Pointing  to 
the  screen.]  May  I  retire? 
WELLWYN.  Yes,  yes. 

[FERRAND  goes   behind  the  screen.     WELLWYN 
closes  the  door  into  the  house,  then  goes  to  the  win- 
dow to  draw  the  curtains.     He  suddenly  recoils 
and  stands  petrified  with  doubt. 
WELLWYN.  Good  Lord! 

[There  is  the  sound  of  tapping  on  glass.    Against 
the  window-pane  is  pressed  the  face  of  a  man. 
WELLWYN  motions  to  him  to  go  away.    He  does 
not  go,  but  continues  tapping.     WELLWYN  opens 
the  door.     There  enters  a  square  old  man,  with  a 
red,  pendulous-jawed,  shaking  face  under  a  snow 
besprinkled  bowler  hat.     He  is  holding  out  a 
visiting  card  with  tremulous  hand. 
WELLWYN.  Who's  that?    Who  are  you? 
TIMSON.  [In  a  thick,  hoarse,  shaking  voice.]  'Appy  to 
see  you,  sir;  we  'ad  a  talk  this  morning.     Timson — I 
give  you  me  name.     You  invited  of  me,  if  ye  remember. 
WELLWYN.  It's  a  little  late,  really. 
TIMSON.  Well,  ye  see,  I  never  expected  to  'ave  to 
call  on  yer.     I  was  'itched  up  all  right  when  I  spoke  to 
yer  this  mornin',  but  bein'  Christmas,  things  'ave  took 
a  turn  with  me  to-day.  [He  speaks  with  increasing  thick- 
ness.] I'm  reg'lar  disgusted — not  got  the  price  of  a  bed 
abaht  me.    Thought  you  wouldn't  like  me  to  be  deli- 
cate— not  at  my  age. 


18  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

WELLWYN.  [With  a  mechanical  and  distracted  dive  of 
his  hands  into  his  pockets.]  The  fact  is,  it  so  happens  I 
haven't  a  copper  on  me. 

TIMSON.  [Evidently  taking  this  for  professional  re- 
fusal.} Wouldn't  arsk  you  if  I  could  'elp  it.  'Ad  to  do 
with  'orses  all  me  life.  It's  this  'ere  cold  I'm  frightened 
of.  I'm  afraid  I'll  go  to  sleep. 

WELLWYN.  Well,  really,  I 

TIMSON.  To  be  froze  to  death — I  mean — it's  awk- 
ward. 

WELLWYN.  [Puzzled  and  unhappy.]  Well — come  in 
a  moment,  and  let's — think  it  out.    Have  some  tea! 
[He  pours  out  the  remains  of  the  tea,  and  finding 
there  is  not  very  much,  adds  rum  rather  liber- 
ally.    TIMSON,  who  walks  a  little  wide  at  the 
knees,  steadying  his  gait,  has  followed. 
TIMSON.  [Receiving  the  drink.}  Yer  'ealth.     'Ere's — 
soberiety!  [He  applies  the  drink  to  his  lips  with  shaking 
hand.     Agreeably  surprised.]  Blimey!    Thish  yer  tea's 
foreign,  ain't  it? 

FERRAND.  [Reappearing  from  behind  the  screen  in  his 
new  clothes  of  which  the  trousers  stop  too  soon.}  With  a 
needle,  Monsieur,  I  would  soon  have  with  what  to  make 
face  against  the  world. 
WELLWYN.  Too  short!    Ah! 

[He  goes  to  the  dais  on  which  stands  ANN'S  work- 
basket,  and  takes  from  it  a  needle  and  cotton. 
[While  he  is  so  engaged  FERRAND  is  sizing  up  old 
TIMSON,  as  one  dog  will  another.     The  old  man, 
glass  in  hand,  seems  to  have  lapsed  into  coma. 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  19 

FERRAND.  [Indicating  TIMSON.]  Monsieur! 

[He  makes  the  gesture  of  one  drinking,  and  shakes 
his  head. 

WELLWYN.  [Handing  him  the  needle  and  cotton.]  Um! 
Afraid  so! 

[They  approach  TIMSON,  who  takes  no  notice. 

FERRAND.  [Gently.]  It  is  an  old  cabby,  is  it  not,  Mon- 
sieur? Ceux  sont  tous  des  buveurs. 

WELLWYN.  [Concerned  at  the  old  man's  stupefaction.] 
Now,  my  old  friend,  sit  down  a  moment.  [They  ma- 
noeuvre TIMSON  to  the  settle.]  Will  you  smoke? 

TIMSON.  [In  a  drowsy  voice.]  Thank  'ee — smoke  pipe 
of  'baccer.  Old  'orse — standin'  abaht  in  th'  cold. 

[He  relapses  into  coma. 

FERRAND.  [With  a  click  of  his  tongue.]  II  est  parti. 

WELLWYN.  [Doubtfully.]  He  hasn't  really  left  a 
horse  outside,  do  you  think? 

FERRAND.  Non,  non,  Monsieur — no  'orse.  He  is 
dreaming.  I  know  very  well  that  state  of  him — that 
catches  you  sometimes.  It  is  the  warmth  sudden  on 
the  stomach.  He  will  speak  no  more  sense  to-night. 
At  the  most,  drink,  and  fly  a  little  in  his  past. 

WELLWYN.  Poor  old  buffer! 

FERRAND.  Touching,  is  it  not,  Monsieur?  There  are 
many  brave  gents  among  the  old  cabbies — they  have 
philosophy — that  comes  from  'orses,  and  from  sitting 
still. 

WELLWYN.  [Touching TUCSON'S, shoulder.]  Drenched! 

FERRAND.  That  will  do  'im  no  'arm,  Monsieur — no 
'arm  at  all.  He  is  well  wet  inside,  remember — it  is 


20  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

Christmas  to-morrow.    Put  him  a  rug,  if  you  will,  he 
will  soon  steam. 

[WELLWYN  takes  up  ANN'S  long  red  cloak,  and 
wraps  it  round  the  old  man. 

TIMSON.  [Faintly  roused.]  Tha's  right.  Put — the 
rug  on  th'  old  'orse. 

[He  makes  a  strange  noise,  and  works  his  head  and 
tongue. 

WELLWYN.  [Alarmed.]  What's  the  matter  with  him? 

FERRAND.  It  is  nothing,  Monsieur;  for  the  moment 
he  thinks  'imself  a  'orse.  II  joue  "cache-cache,"  'ide 
and  seek,  with  what  you  call — 'is  bitt. 

WELLWYN.  But  what's  to  be  done  with  him?  One 
can't  turn  him  out  in  this  state. 

FERRAND.  If  you  wish  to  leave  him  'ere,  Monsieur, 
have  no  fear.  I  charge  myself  with  him. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  [Dubiously.]  You — er — I  really  don't 
know,  I — hadn't  contemplated — You  think  you  could 
manage  if  I — if  I  went  to  bed? 

FERRAND.  But  certainly,  Monsieur. 

WELLWYN.  [Still  dubiously.]  You — you're  sure  you've 
everything  you  want? 

FERRAND.  [Bowing.]  Mais  oui,  Monsieur. 

WELLWYN.  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do  by  staying. 

FERRAND.  There  is  nothing  you  can  do,  Monsieur. 
Have  confidence  in  me. 

WELLWYN.  Well — keep  the  fire  up  quietly — very 
quietly.  You'd  better  take  this  coat  of  mine,  too. 
You'll  find  it  precious  cold,  I  expect,  about  three 
o'clock.  [He  hands  FERRAND  his  ulster. 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  21 

FERRAND.  [Taking  it.]  I  shall  sleep  in  praying  for 
you,  Monsieur. 

WELLWYN.  Ah!  Yes!  Thanks!  Well — good-night! 
By  the  way,  I  shall  be  down  rather  early.  Have  to 
think  of  my  household  a  bit,  you  know. 

FERRAND.  Tres  bien,  Monsieur.  I  comprehend. 
One  must  well  be  regular  in  this  life. 

WELLWYN.  [With   a   start.]  Lord!  [He  looks  at  the 

door  of  the  model's  room.]  I'd  forgotten 

FERRAND.  Can  I  undertake  anything,  Monsieur? 
WELLWYN.  No,  no!  [He  goes  to  the  electric  light  switch 
by  the  outer  door.]  You  won't  want  this,  will  you? 
FERRAND.  Merci,  Monsieur. 

[WELLWYN  switches  off  the  light. 
FERRAND.  Bon  soir,  Monsieur! 
WELLWYN.  The  devil!    Er — good-night! 

[He  hesitates,  rumples  his  hair,  and  passes  rather 

suddenly  away. 

FERRAND.  [To  himself.]  Poor  pigeon!  [Looking  long 
at  old  TIMSON.]  Espece  de  type  anglais! 

[He  sits  down  in  the  firelight,  curls  up  afoot  on  his 
knee,  and  taking  out  a  knife,  rips  the  stitching 
of  a  turned-up  end  of  trouser,  pinches  the  cloth 
double,  and  puts  in  the  preliminary  stitch  of  a 
new  hem — all  with  the  swiftness  of  one  well-ac- 
customed. Then,  as  if  hearing  a  sound  behind 
him,  he  gets  up  quickly  and  slips  behind  the 
screen.  MRS.  MEGAN,  attracted  by  the  cessation 
of  voices,  has  opened  the  door,  and  is  creeping 
from  the  model's  room  towards  the  fire.  She  has 


22  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

almost  reached  it  before  she  takes  in  the  torpid 
crimson  figure  of  old  TIMSON.  She  halts  and 
puts  her  hand  to  her  chest — a  queer  figure  in  the 
firelight,  garbed  in  the  canary-coloured  bath 
gown  and  rabbit' s-wool  slippers,  her  black  matted 
hair  straggling  down  on  her  neck.  Having  quite 
digested  the  fact  that  the  old  man  is  in  a  sort  of 
stupor,  MRS.  MEGAN  goes  close  to  the  fire,  and 
sits  on  the  little  stool,  smiling  sideways  at  old 
TIMSON.  FEBBAND,  coming  quietly  up  behind, 
examines  her  from  above,  drooping  his  long  nose 
as  if  enquiring  with  it  as  to  her  condition  in 
life;  then  he  steps  back  a  yard  or  two. 

FERBAND.  [Gently.]  Pardon,  Ma'moiselle. 

MBS.  MEGAN.  [Springing  to  her  feet.]  Oh! 

FEBBAND.  All  right,  all  right!    We  are  brave  gents! 

TIMSON.  [Faintly  roused.]  'Old  up,  there! 

FEEBAND.  Trust  in  me,  Ma'moiselle! 

[MRS.  MEGAN  responds  by  drawing  away. 

FERRAND.  [Gently.]  We    must    be    good    comrades. 
This  asylum — it  is  better  than  a  doss-'ouse. 

[He  pushes  the  stool  over  towards  her,  and  seats 
himself.  Somewhat  reassured,  MRS.  MEGAN 
again  sits  down. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  You  frightened  me. 

TIMSON.  [Unexpectedly — in  a  drowsy  tone.]   Purple 
foreigners! 

FEBBAND.  Pay  no  attention,  Ma'moiselle.    He  is  a 
philosopher. 


ACT  i  THE   PIGEON  23 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Oh!    I  thought  'e  was  boozed. 

[They  both  look  at  TIMSON. 

FERRAND.  It  is  the  same — veree  'armless. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  What's  that  he's  got  on  'im? 

FERRAND.  It  is  a  coronation  robe.  Have  no  fear, 
Ma'moiselle.  Veree  docile  potentate. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  wouldn't  be  afraid  of  him.  [Chal- 
lenging FERRAND.]  I'm  afraid  o'  you. 

FERRAND.  It  is  because  you  do  not  know  me,  Ma'- 
moiselle. You  are  wrong,  it  is  always  the  unknown 
you  should  love. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  don't  like  the  way  you — speaks  to 
me. 

FERRAND.  Ah!    You  are  a  Princess  in  disguise? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  No  fear! 

FERRAND.  No?  What  is  it  then  you  do  to  make 
face  against  the  necessities  of  life?  A  living? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Sells  flowers. 

FERRAND.  [Rotting  his  eyes.]  It  is  not  a  career. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [With  a  touch  of  devilry.]  You  don't 
know  what  I  do. 

FERRAND.  Ma'moiselle,  whatever  you  do  is  char- 
ming. 

[MRS.  MEGAN  looks  at  him,  and  slowly  smiles. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  You're  a  foreigner. 

FERRAND.  It  is  true. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  What  do  you  do  for  a  livin'? 

FERRAND.  I  am  an  interpreter. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  You  ain't  very  busy,  are  you? 

FERRAND.  [With  dignity.]  At  present  I  am  resting. 


24  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Looking  at  him  and  smiling.]  How 
did  you  and  'im  come  here? 

FERRAND.  Ma'moiselle,  we  would  ask  you  the  same 
question. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  The  gentleman  let  me.    'E's  funny. 

FERRAND.  C'est  un  angel  [At  MRS.  MEGAN'S  blank 
stare  he  interprets.]  An  angel! 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Me  luck's  out — that's  why  I  come. 

FERRAND.  [Rising.]  Ah!  Ma'moiselle!  Luck!  There 
is  the  little  God  who  dominates  us  all.  Look  at  this 
old!  [He  points  to  TIMSON.]  He  is  finished.  In  his 
day  that  old  would  be  doing  good  business.  He  could 
afford  himself —  [He  makes  a  sign  of  drinking.]  Then 
come  the  motor  cars.  All  goes — he  has  nothing  left, 
only  'is  'abits  of  a  cocher!  Luck! 

TIMSON.  [With  a  vague  gesture — drowsily.]  Kick  the 
foreign  beggars  out. 

FERRAND.  A  real  Englishman.  .  .  .  And  look  at  me! 
My  father  was  merchant  of  ostrich  feathers  in  Brussels. 
If  I  had  been  content  to  go  in  his  business,  I  would  'ave 
been  rich.  But  I  was  born  to  roll — "rolling  stone" — 
to  voyage  is  stronger  than  myself.  Luck!  .  .  .  And 
you,  Ma'moiselle,  shall  I  tell  your  fortune?  [He  looks 
in  her  face.]  You  were  born  for  la  joie  de  vivre — to  drink 
the  wines  of  life.  Et  vous  voilal  Luck! 

[Though  she  does  not  in  the  least  understand  what  he 
has  said,  her  expression  changes  to  a  sort  of  glee. 

FERRAND.  Yes.  You  were  born  loving  pleasure.  Is 
it  not?  You  see,  you  cannot  say,  No.  All  of  us,  we 
have  our  fates.  Give  me  your  hand.  [He  kneels  down 


ACT  i  THE  PIGEON  25 

and  takes  her  hand.]  In  each  of  us  there  is  that  against 
which  we  cannot  struggle.    Yes,  yes! 

[He  holds  her  hand,  and  turns  it  over  between  his 
own.  MRS.  MEGAN  remains  stolid,  half-fasci- 
nated, half-reluctant. 

TIMSON.  [Flickering  into  consciousness.}  Be'ave  your- 
selves !    Yer  crimson  canary  birds ! 

[MBS.  MEGAN  would  withdraw  her  hand,  but  cannot. 
FERRAND.  Pay  no  attention,  Ma'moiselle.     He  is  a 
Puritan. 

[TIMSON  relapses  into  comatosity,  upsetting  his 

glass,  which  falls  with  a  crash. 
MRS.  MEGAN.  Let  go  my  hand,  please! 
FERRAND.  [Relinquishing  it,  and  staring  into  the  fire 
gravely.]  There  is  one  thing  I  have  never  done — 'urt  a 
woman — that  is  hardly  in  my  character.  [Then,  draw- 
ing a  little  closer,  he  looks  into  her  face.]  Tell  me,  Ma'- 
moiselle, what  is  it  you  think  of  all  day  long? 
MRS.  MEGAN.  I  dunno — lots,  I  thinks  of. 
FERRAND.  Shall  I  tell  you?  [Her  eyes  remain  fixed 
on  his,  the  strangeness  of  him  preventing  her  from  telling 
him  to  "get  along"    He  goes  on  in  his  ironic  voice.]  It 
is  of  the  streets — the  lights — the  faces — it  is  of  all  which 
moves,  and  is  warm — it  is  of  colour — it  is  [he  brings  his 
face  quite  close  to  hers]  of  Love.     That  is  for  you  what 
the  road  is  for  me.     That  is  for  you  what  the  rum  is  for 
that  old —    [He  jerks  his  thumb  back  at  TIMSON.     Then 
bending  swiftly  forward  to  the  girl.]  See!  I  kiss  you — Ah! 
[He  draws  her  forward  off  the  stool.     There  is  a 
little  struggle,  then  she  resigns  her  lips.     The 


26  THE  PIGEON  ACT  i 

little  stool,  overturned,  falls  with  a  clatter.  They 
spring  up,  and  move  apart.  The  door  opens  and 
ANN  enters  from  the  house  in  a  blue  dressing- 
gown,  with  her  hair  loose,  and  a  candle  held  high 
above  her  head.  Taking  in  the  strange  half- 
circle  round  the  stove,  she  recoils.  Then,  stand- 
ing her  ground,  calls  in  a  voice  sharpened  by 
fright:  "Daddy— Daddy!" 
TIMSON.  [Stirring  uneasily,  and  struggling  to  his  feet.] 

All  ri !    Z'm  comin'! 

FEBBAND.  Have  no  fear,  Madame! 

[In  the  silence  that  follows,  a  clock  begins  loudly 
striking  twelve.  ANN  remains,  as  if  carved  in 
stone,  her  eyes  fastened  on  the  strangers.  There 
is  the  sound  of  someone  falling  downstairs,  and 
WELLWYN  appears,  also  holding  a  candle  above 
his  head. 
ANN.  Look! 

WELLWYN.  Yes,  yes,  my  dear!    It — it  happened. 
ANN.  [With  a  sort  of  groan.]  Oh!  Daddy! 

[In  the  renewed  silence,  the  church  clock  ceases  to 

chime. 

FEBRAND.  [Softly,  in  his  ironic  voice.]  HE  is  come, 
Monsieur!  'Appy  Christmas!    Bon  Noel! 

[There  is  a  sudden  chime  of  bells. 
The  Stage  is  blotted  dark. 

Curtain. 


ACT  II 

It  is  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  New  Year's  Day. 
On  the  raised  dais  MRS.  MEGAN  is  standing,  in  her 
rags;  with  bare  feet  and  ankles,  Iier  dark  hair  as  if 
blown  about,  her  lips  parted,  holding  out  a  dishevelled 
bunch  of  violets.  Before  his  easel,  WELLWYN  is 
painting  her.  Behind  him,  at  a  table  between  the 
cupboard  and  the  door  to  the  model's  room,  TIMSON  is 
washing  brushes,  with  the  movements  of  one  employed 
upon  relief  works.  The  samovar  is  hissing  on  the 
table  by  the  stove,  the  tea  things  are  set  out. 

WELLWYN.  Open  your  mouth. 

[Mas.  MEGAN  opens  her  mouth. 
ANN.  [In  hat  and  coat,  entering  from  the  house.] 
Daddy! 

[WELLWYN  goes  to  her;   and,  released  from  re- 
straint, MRS.  MEGAN  looks  round  at  TIMSON 
and  grimaces. 
WELLWYN.  Well,  my  dear? 

[They  speak  in  low  voices. 

ANN.  [Holding  out  a  note.]  This  note  from  Canon 

Bertley.    He's  going  to  bring  her  husband  here  this 

afternoon.  [She  looks  at  MRS.  MEGAN. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!          [He  also  looks  at  MRS.  MEGAN. 

27 


28  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

ANN.  And  I  met  Sir  Thomas  Hoxton  at  church  this 
morning,  and  spoke  to  him  about  Timson. 
WELLWTN.  Um! 

[They  look  at  TIMSON.     Then  ANN  goes  back  to 

the  door,  and  WELLWTN  follows  her. 
ANN.  [Turning.]  I'm  going  round  now,  Daddy,  to 
ask  Professor  Calway  what  we're  to  do  with  that  Fer- 
rand. 

WELLWTN.  Oh!    One  each!    I   wonder   if    they'll 
like  it. 
ANN.  They'll  have  to  lump  it. 

[She  goes  out  into  the  house. 

WELLWTN.  [Back  at  his  easel.]  You  can  shut  your 
mouth  now. 

[MBS.  MEGAN  shuts  her  mouth,  but  opens  it  im- 
mediately to  smile. 

WELLWTN.  [Spasmodically.]  Ah!  Now  that's  what 
I  want.  [He  dabs  furiously  at  the  canvas.  Then  stand- 
ing back,  runs  his  hands  through  his  hair  and  turns  a 
painter's  glance  towards  the  skylight.]  Dash!  Light's 
gone!  Off  you  get,  child — don't  tempt  me! 

[MRS.  MEGAN   descends.    Passing  towards  the 
door  of  the  model's  room  she  stops,  and  stealthily 
looks  at  the  picture. 
TIMSON.  Ah!    Would  yer! 

WELLWTN.  [Wheeling  round.]  Want  to  have  a  look? 
Well — come  on! 

[He  takes  her  by  the  arm,  and  they  stand  before  the 

canvas.    After  a  stolid  moment,  she  giggles. 
WELLWTN.  Oh!    You  think  so? 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  29 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Who  has  lost  her  hoarseness.]  It's  not 
like  my  picture  that  I  had  on  the  pier. 
WELLWYN.  No — it  wouldn't  be. 
MRS.  MEGAN.  [Timidly.]  If  I  had  an  'at  on,  I'd  look 
better. 

WELLWYN.  With  feathers? 
MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes. 

WELLWYN.  Well,  you  can't!    I  don't  like  hats,  and 
I  don't  like  feathers. 

[MRS.  MEGAN  timidly  tugs  his  sleeve.  TEMSON, 
screened  as  he  thinks  by  the  picture,  has  drawn 
from  his  bulky  pocket  a  bottle  and  is  taking  a 
stealthy  swig. 

WELLWYN.  [To  MRS.  MEGAN,  affecting  not  to  notice.] 
How  much  do  I  owe  you? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [A  little  surprised.]  You  paid  me  for 
to-day — all  'cept  a  penny. 

WELLWYN.  Well!    Here  it  is.  [He  gives  her  a  coin.] 
Go  and  get  your  feet  on! 
MRS.  MEGAN.  You've  give  me  'arf  a  crown. 
WELLWYN.  Cut  away  now! 

[MRS.  MEGAN,  smiling  at  the  coin,  goes  towards 
the  model's  room.  She  looks  back  at  WELLWYN, 
as  if  to  draw  his  eyes  to  her,  but  he  is  gazing  at 
the  picture;  then,  catching  old  TIMSON'S  sour 
glance,  she  grimaces  at  him,  kicking  up  her  feet 
wtih  a  little  squeal.  But  when  WELLWYN  turns 
to  the  sound,  she  is  demurely  passing  through  the 
doorway. 


30  THE   PIGEON  ACT  n 

TIMSON.  [In  his  voice  of  dubious  sobriety.]  I've  fin- 
ished these  yer  brushes,  sir.  It's  not  a  man's  work. 
I've  been  thinkin'  if  you'd  keep  an  'orse,  I  could  give 
yer  satisfaction. 

WELLWYN.  Would  the  horse,  Timson? 

TIMSON.  [Looking  him  up  and  down.}  I  knows  of  one 
that  would  just  suit  yer.  Reel  'orse,  you'd  like  'im. 

WELLWYN.  [Shaking  his  head.]  Afraid  not,  Timson! 
Awfully  sorry,  though,  to  have  nothing  better  for  you 
than  this,  at  present. 

TIMSON.  [Faintly  waving  the  brushes.]  Of  course,  if 
you  can't  afford  it,  I  don't  press  you — it's  only  that  I 
feel  I'm  not  doing  meself  justice.  [Confidentially.] 
There's  just  one  thing,  sir;  I  can't  bear  to  see  a  gen'le- 
man  imposed  on.  That  foreigner — 'e's  not  the  sort  to 
'a ve  about  the  place.  Talk?  Oh!  ah!  But 'e'll  never 
do  any  good  with  'imself .  He's  a  alien. 

WELLWYN.  Terrible  misfortune  to  a  fellow,  Timson. 

TIMSON.  Don't  you  believe  it,  sir;  it's  his  fault  I 
says  to  the  young  lady  yesterday:  Miss  Ann,  your 
father's  a  gen'leman  [with  a  sudden  accent  of  hoarse  sin- 
cerity], and  so  you  are — I  don't  mind  sayin'  it — but,  I 
said,  he's  too  easy-goin*. 

WELLWYN.  Indeed! 

TIMSON.  Well,  see  that  girl  now !  [He  shakes  his  head.] 
I  never  did  believe  in  goin'  behind  a  person's  back — 
I'm  an  Englishman — but  [lowering  his  voice]  she's  a 
bad  hat,  sir.  Why,  look  at  the  street  she  comes  from! 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  you  know  it. 

TIMSON.  Lived  there  meself  larst  three  years.    See 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  31 

the  difference  a  few  days'  corn's  made  in  her.  She's 
that  saucy  you  can't  touch  'er  head. 

WELLWYN.  Is  there  any  necessity,  Timson  ? 

TIMSON.  Artful  too.  Full  o'  vice,  I  call  'er.  Where's 
'er  'usband? 

WELLWYN.  [Gravely.]  Come,  Timson!  You  wouldn't 
like  her  to 

TIMSON.  [With  dignity,  so  that  the  bottle  in  his  pocket 
is  plainly  visible.]  I'm  a  man  as  always  beared  inspec- 
tion. 

WELLWYN.  [With  a  well-directed  smile.]  So  I  see. 

TIMSON.  [Curving  himself  round  the  bottle.]  It's  not 
for  me  to  say  nothing — but  I  can  tell  a  gen'leman  as 
quick  as  ever  I  can  tell  an  'orse.  i 

WELLWYN.  [Painting.]  I  find  it  safest  to  assume 
that  every  man  is  a  gentleman,  and  every  woman  a 
lady.  Saves  no  end  of  self-contempt.  Give  me  the 
little  brush. 

TIMSON.  [Handing  him  the  brush — after  a  consider- 
able introspective  pause.]  Would  yer  like  me  to  stay  and 
wash  it  for  yer  again  ?  [With  great  resolution.]  I  will — 
I'll  do  it  for  you — never  grudged  workin'  for  a  gen'le- 
man. 

WELLWYN.  [With  sincerity.]  Thank  you,  Timson — 
very  good  of  you,  I'm  sure.  [He  hands  him  back  the 
brush.]  Just  lend  us  a  hand  with  this.  [Assisted  by  TUC- 
SON he  pushes  back  the  dais.]  Let's  see!  What  do  I  owe 
you? 

TIMSON.  [Reluctantly.]  It  so  'appens,  you  advanced 
me  to-day's  yesterday. 


32  THE   PIGEON  ACT  n 

WELLWYN.  Then  I  suppose  you  want  to-morrow's  ? 

TIMSON.  Well,  I  'ad  to  spend  it,  lookin'  for  a  per- 
manent job.  When  you've  got  to  do  with  'orses,  you 
can't  neglect  the  publics,  or  you  might  as  well  be 
dead. 

WELLWYN.  Quite  so! 

TIMSON.  It  mounts  up  in  the  course  o'  the  year. 

WELLWYN.  It  would.  [Passing  him  a  coin.]  This  is 
for  an  exceptional  purpose — Timson — see.  Not 

TIMSON.  [Touching  his  forehead.]  Certainly,  sir.  I 
quite  understand.  I'm  not  that  sort,  as  I  think  I've 
proved  to  yer,  comin'  here  regular  day  after  day,  all 
the  week.  There's  one  thing,  I  ought  to  warn  you  per- 
haps— I  might  'ave  to  give  this  job  up  any  day. 

[He  makes  a  faint  demonstration  with  the  little 
brush,  then  puts  it,  absent-mindedly,  into  his 
pocket. 

WELLWYN.  [Gravely.]  I'd  never  stand  in  the  way  of 
your  bettering  yourself,  Timson.  And,  by  the  way, 
my  daughter  spoke  to  a  friend  about  you  to-day.  I 
think  something  may  come  of  it. 

TIMSON.  Oh!  Oh!  She  did!  Well,  it  might  do  me 
a  bit  o'  good.  [He  makes  for  the  outer  door,  but  stops.] 
That  foreigner!  'E  sticks  in  my  gizzard.  It's  not  as 
if  there  wasn't  plenty  o'  pigeons  for  'im  to  pluck  hi  'is 
own  Gawd-forsaken  country.  Reg-lar  jay,  that's  what 

I  calls  'im.    I  could  tell  yer  something 

[He  has  opened  the  door,  and  suddenly  sees  that 
FEKRAND  himself  is  standing  there.  Sticking 
out  his  lower  lip,  TIMSON  gives  a  rott  of  his  jaw 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  33 

and  lurches  forth  into  the  street.  Owing  to  a 
slight  miscalculation,  his  face  and  raised  arms 
are  plainly  visible  through  the  window,  as  he  for- 
tifies himself  from  his  battle  against  the  cold. 
FERRAND,  having  closed  the  door,  stands  with 
his  thumb  acting  as  pointer  towards  this  spectacle. 
He  is  now  remarkably  dressed  in  an  artist's 
squashy  green  hat,  a  frock  coat  too  small  for  him, 
a  bright  blue  tie  of  knitted  silk,  the  grey  trousers 
that  were  torn,  well-worn  brown  boots,  and  atari 
waistcoat. 

WELLWYN.  What  luck  to-day  ? 
FERRAND.  [With  a  shrug.}  Again  I  have  beaten  all 
London,  Monsieur — not  one  bite.  [Contemplating  him- 
self.] I  think  perhaps,  that,  for  the  bourgeoisie,  there  is 
a  little  too  much  colour  in  my  costume. 

WELLWYN.  [Contemplating  him.]  Let's  see — I  be- 
lieve I've  an  old  top  hat  somewhere. 

FERRAND.  Ah!    Monsieur,  merci,  but  that  I  could 
not.    It  is  scarcely  in  my  character. 
WELLWYN.  True! 

FERRAND.  I  have  been  to  merchants  of  wine,  of  tabac, 
to  hotels,  to  Leicester  Square.  I  have  been  to  a — 
Society  for  spreading  Christian  knowledge — I  thought 
there  I  would  have  a  chance  perhaps  as  interpreter. 
Toujours  meme  chose — we  regret,  we  have  no  situation 
for  you — same  thing  everywhere.  It  seems  there  is 
nothing  doing  in  this  town. 

WELLWYN.  I've  noticed,  there  never  is. 

FERRAND.  I  was  thinking,  Monsieur,  that  in  avia- 


84  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

tion  there  might  be  a  career  for  me — but  it  seems  one 
must  be  trained. 

WELLWTN.  Afraid  so,  Ferrand. 
FERRAND.  [Approaching  the  picture.]  Ah!  You  are 
always  working  at  this.  You  will  have  something  of 
very  good  there,  Monsieur.  You  wish  to  fix  the  type 
of  wild  savage  existing  ever  amongst  our  high  civilisa- 
tion. C'est  tres  chic  ca!  [WELLWTN  manifests  the  quiet 
delight  of  an  English  artist  actually  understood.]  In  the 
figures  of  these  good  citizens,  to  whom  she  offers  her 
flower,  you  would  give  the  idea  of  all  the  cage  doors 
open  to  catch  and  make  tame  the  wild  bird,  that  will 
surely  die  within.  Tres  gentUl  Believe  me,  Monsieur, 
you  have  there  the  greatest  comedy  of  life!  How  anx- 
ious are  the  tame  birds  to  do  the  wild  birds  good.  [His 
voice  changes.]  For  the  wild  birds  it  is  not  funny.  There 
is  in  some  human  souls,  Monsieur,  what  cannot  be 
made  tame. 

WELLWTN.  I  believe  you,  Ferrand. 

[The  face  of  a  young  man  appears  at  the  window, 
unseen.  Suddenly  ANN  opens  the  door  leading 
to  the  house. 

ANN.  Daddy — I  want  you. 
WELLWTN.  [To  FERRAND.]  Excuse  me  a  minute! 

[He  goes  to  his  daughter,  and  they  pass  out. 

[FERRAND  remains  at  the  picture.    MRS.  MEGAN 

dressed  in  some  of  ANN'S  discarded  garments, 

has  come  out  of  the  model's  room.    She  steals  up 

behind  FERRAND  like  a  cat,  reaches  an  arm  up, 

•-        and  curls  it  round  his  mouth.     He  turns,  and 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  35 

tries  to  seize  her;  she  disingenuously  slips  away. 
He  follows.  The  chase  circles  the  tea  table.  He 
catches  her,  lifts  her  up,  swings  round  with  her, 
so  that  her  feet  fly  out;  kisses  her  bent-back  face, 
and  sets  her  down.  She  stands  there  smiling. 
The  face  at  the  window  darkens. 
FEBBAND.  La  Valse! 

[He  takes  her  with  both  hands  by  the  waist,  she  puts 
her  hands  against  his  shoulders  to  push  him  off 
— and  suddenly  they  are  whirling.  As  they 
whirl,  they  bob  together  once  or  twice,  and  kiss. 
Then,  with  a  warning  motion  towards  the  door, 
she  wrenches  herself  free,  and  stops  beside  the 
picture,  trying  desperately  to  appear  demure. 
WELLWYN  and  ANN  have  entered.  The  face 
has  vanished. 

FEBKAND.  [Pointing  to  the  picture.]  One  does  not 
comprehend  all  this,  Monsieur,  without  well  studying. 
I  was  in  train  to  interpret  for  Ma'moiselle  the  chiaro- 
scuro. 

WELLWYN.  [With  a  queer  look.]  Don't  take  it  too 
seriously,  Ferrand. 

FEBEAND.  It  is  a  masterpiece. 

WELLWYN.  My  daughter's  just  spoken  to  a  friend, 
Professor  Calway.  He'd  like  to  meet  you.  Could  y^>u 
come  back  a  little  later  ? 

FEBEAND.  Certainly,  Ma'moiselle.  That  will  be  an 
opening  for  me,  I  trust.  [He  goes  to  the  street  door. 

ANN.  [Paying  no  attention  to  him.]  Mrs.  Megan,  will 
you  too  come  back  in  half  an  hour  ? 


36  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

FERBAND.  Tres  bien,  Ma'moisellet  I  will  see  that 
she  does.  We  will  take  a  little  promenade  together. 
That  will  do  us  good. 

[He  motions  towards  the  door;  MRS.  MEGAN,  all 
eyes,  follows  him  out. 

ANN.  Oh!  Daddy,  they  are  rotters.  Couldn't  you 
see  they  were  having  the  most  high  jinks  ? 

WELLWYN.  [At  his  picture.]  I  seemed  to  have  no- 
ticed something. 

ANN.  [Preparing  for  tea.]  They  were  kissing. 

WELLWYN.  Tt!    Tt! 

ANN.  They're  hopeless,  all  three — especially  her. 
Wish  I  hadn't  given  her  my  clothes  now. 

WELLWYN.  [Absorbed.]  Something  of  wild-savage. 

ANN.  Thank  goodness  it's  the  Vicar's  business  to  see 
that  married  people  live  together  in  his  parish. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  [Dubiously.]  The  Megans  are  Ro- 
man Catholic-Atheists,  Ann. 

ANN.  [With  heat.]  Then  they're  all  the  more  bound. 
[WELLWYN  gives  a  sudden  and  alarmed  whistle. 

ANN.  What's  the  matter  ? 

WELLWYN.  Didn't  you  say  you  spoke  to  Sir  Thomas, 
too.  Suppose  he  comes  in  while  the  Professor's  here. 
They're  cat  and  dog. 

ANN.  [Blankly.]  Oh!  [As  WELLWYN  strikes  a  match.] 
The  samovar  is  lighted.  [Taking  up  the  nearly  empty 
decanter  of  rum  and  going  to  the  cupboard.]  It's  all  right. 
He  won't. 

WELLWYN.  We'll  hope  not. 

[He  turns  back  to  his  picture. 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  37 

ANN.  [At  the  cupboard.]  Daddy! 

WELLWYN.  Hi! 

ANN.  There  were  three  bottles. 

WELLWYN.  Oh! 

ANN.  Well!    Now  there  aren't  any.    -. 

WELLWYN.  [Abstracted.]  That'll  be  Timson. 

ANN.  [With  real  horror.]  But  it's  awful! 

WELLWYN.  It  is,  my  dear. 

ANN.  In  seven  days.     To  say  nothing  of  the  stealing. 

WELLWYN.  [Vexed.]  I  blame  myself — very  much. 
Ought  to  have  kept  it  locked  up. 

ANN.  You  ought  to  keep  him  locked  up! 

[There  is  heard  a  mild  but  authoritative  knock. 

WELLWYN.  Here's  the  Vicar! 

ANN.  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  the  rum  ? 

WELLWYN.  [Opening  the  door  to  CANON  BEBTLEY.] 
Come  in,  Vicar!  Happy  New  Year! 

BERTLEY.  Same  to  you!  Ah!  Ann!  I've  got  into 
touch  with  her  young  husband — he's  coming  round. 

ANN.  [Still  a  little  out  of  her  plate.]  Thank  Go 

Moses! 

BERTLEY.  [Faintly  surprised.]  From  what  I  hear  he's 
not  really  a  bad  youth.  Afraid  he  bets  on  horses.  The 
great  thing,  Wellwyn,  with  those  poor  fellows  is  to  put 
your  finger  on  the  weak  spot. 

ANN.  [To  herself — gloomily.]  That's  not  difficult. 
What  would  you  do,  Canon  Bertley,  with  a  man  who's 
been  drinking  father's  rum? 

BERTLEY.  Remove  the  temptation,  of  course. 

WELLWYN.  He's  done  that. 


38  THE   PIGEON  ACT  11 

BERTLEY.  Ah!  Then — [WELLWYN  and  ANN  hang 
on  his  words}  then  I  should — er 

ANN.  [Abruptly.]  Remove  him. 

BEKTLEY.  Before  I  say  that,  Ann,  I  must  certainly 
see  the  individual. 

WELLWYN.  [Pointing  to  the  window.]  There  he   is! 
[In  the  failing  light  TIMSON'S  face  is  indeed  to  be 
seen  pressed  against  the  window  pane. 

ANN.  Daddy,  I  do  wish  you'd  have  thick  glass  put 

in.    It's  so  disgusting  to  be  spied  at!  [WELLWYN  going 

quickly  to  the  door,  has  opened  it.]  What  do  you  want? 

[TiMSON  enters  with  dignity.    He  is  fuddled. 

TIMSON.  [Slowly.]  Arskin'  yer  pardon — thought  it 
me  duty  to  come  back — found  thish  yer  little  brishel  on 
me.  [He  produces  the  little  paint  brush. 

ANN.  [In  a  deadly  voice.]  Nothing  else? 

[TmsoN  accords  her  a  glassy  stare. 

WELLWYN.  [Taking  the  brush  hastily.]  That'll  do, 
Timson,  thanks! 

TIMSON.  As  I  am  'ere,  can  I  do  anything  for  yer? 

ANN.  Yes,  you  can  sweep  out  that  little  room.  [She 
points  to  the  model's  room.]  There's  a  broom  in  there. 

TIMSON.  [Disagreeably  surprised.}  Certainly;  never 
make  bones  about  a  little  extra — never  'ave  in  all  me 
life.  Do  it  at  onsh,  I  will.  [He  moves  across  to  the  model's 
room  at  that  peculiar  broad  gait  so  perfectly  adjusted  to 
his  habits.]  You  quite  understand  me — couldn't  bear  to 
'ave  anything  on  me  that  wasn't  mine. 

[He  passes  out. 

ANN.  Old  fraud! 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  39 

WELLWYN.  "In"  and  "on."  Mark  my  words,  he'll 
restore  the — bottles. 

BERTLEY.  But,  my  dear  Wellwyn,  that  is  stealing. 
WELLWYN.  We  all  have  our  discrepancies,  Vicar. 
ANN.  Daddy!    Discrepancies! 

WELLWYN.  Well,  Ann,  my  theory  is  that  as  regards 
solids  Timson's  an  Individualist,  but  as  regards  liquids 
he's  a  Socialist  ...  or  vice  versa,  according  to  taste. 

BERTLEY.  No,  no,  we  mustn't  joke  about  it.  [Gravely.] 
I  do  think  he  should  be  spoken  to. 
WELLWYN.  Yes,  but  not  by  me. 
BERTLEY.  Surely  you're  the  proper  person. 
WELLWYN.  [Shaking  his  head.}  It  was  my  rum,  Vicar. 
Look  so  personal. 

[There  sound  a  number  of  little  tot-tat  knocks. 
WELLWYN.  Isn't  that  the  Professor's  knock? 

[While  Ann  sits  down  to  make  tea,  he  goes  to  the 
door  and  opens  it.  There,  dressed  in  an  ulster, 
stands  a  thin,  clean-shaved  man,  with  a  little 
hollow  sucked  into  either  cheek,  who,  taking  off 
a  grey  squash  hat,  discloses  a  majestically  bald 
forehead,  which  completely  dominates  att  that 
comes  below  it. 

WELLWYN.  Come  in,  Professor!    So  awfully  good 
of  you!    You  know  Canon  Bertley,  I  think? 
CALWAY.  Ah!    How  d'you  do? 
WELLWYN.  Your  opinion  will  be  invaluable,  Pro- 
fessor. 
ANN.  Tea,  Professor  Calway? 

[They  have  assembled  round  the  tea  table. 


40  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

CALWAY.  Thank  you;  no  tea;  milk. 

WELLWYN.  Rum? 

[He  pours  rum  into  CALWAY'S  milk. 

CALWAY.  A  little — thanks!  [Turning  to  ANN.]  You 
were  going  to  show  me  some  one  you're  trying  to  rescue, 
or  something,  I  think. 

ANN.  Oh!  Yes.  He'll  be  here  directly — simply  per- 
fect rotter. 

CALWAY.  [Smiling.]  Really!  Ah!  I  think  you  said 
he  was  a  congenital  ? 

WELLWYN.  [With  great  interest.]  What! 

ANN.  [Low.]  Daddy!  [To  CALWAY.]  Yes;  I— I  think 
that's  what  you  call  him. 

CALWAY.  Not  old? 

ANN.  No;  and  quite  healthy — a  vagabond. 

CALWAY.  [Sipping.]  I  see!  Yes.  Is  it,  do  you  think 
chronic  unemployment  with  a  vagrant  tendency?  Or 
would  it  be  nearer  the  mark  to  say:  Vagrancy 

WELLWYN.  Pure!  Oh!  pure!  Professor.  Awfully 
human. 

CALWAY.  [With  a  smile  of  knowledge.]  Quite!  And 
— er 

ANN.  [Breaking  in.]  Before  he  comes,  there's  an- 
other  

BEBTLEY.  [Blandly.]  Yes,  when  you  came  in,  we  were 
discussing  what  should  be  done  with  a  man  who  drinks 
rum —  [CALWAY  pauses  in  the  act  of  drinking]  that 
doesn't  belong  to  him. 

CALWAY.  Really!    Dipsomaniac? 

BERTLEY.  Well — perhaps  you  could  tell  us — drink 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  41 

certainly  changing  thine  to  mine.     The  Professor  could 
see  him,  Wellwyn? 

ANN.  [Rising.]  Yes,  do  come  and  look  at  him,  Pro- 
fessor Calway.  He's  in  there. 

[She  points  towards  the  model's  room.    CALWAY 

smiles  deprecatingly. 
ANN.  No,  really;   we  needn't  open  the  door.    You 

can  see  him  through  the  glass.    He's  more  than  half 

CALWAY.  Well,  I  hardly 

ANN.  Oh!  Do!  Come  on,  Professor  Calway!  We 
must  know  what  to  do  with  him.  [CALWAY  rises.] 
You  can  stand  on  a  chair.  It's  all  science. 

[She  draws  CALWAY  to  the  model's  room,  which  is 
lighted  by  a  glass  panel  in  the  top  of  the  high  door. 
CANON  BERTLEY  also  rises  and  stands  watch- 
ing.   WELLWYN  hovers,  torn  between  respect  for 
science  and  dislike  of  espionage. 
ANN.  [Drawing  up  a  chair.]  Come  on ! 
CALWAY.  Do  you  seriously  wish  me  to? 
ANN.  Rather!    It's  quite  safe;  he  can't  see  you. 
CALWAY.  But  he  might  come  out. 

[ANN  puts  her  back  against  the  door.    CALWAY 
mounts  the  chair  dubiously,  and  raises  his  head 
cautiously,  bending  it  more  and  more  downwards. 
ANN.  Well? 

CALWAY.  He  appears  to  be — sitting  on  the  floor. 
WELLWYN.  Yes,  that's  all  right! 

[BERTLEY  covers  his  lips. 
CALWAY.  [To  ANN — descending.]  By  the  look  of  his 


42  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

face,  as  far  as  one  can  see  it,  I  should  say  there  was  a 
leaning  towards  mania.     I  know  the  treatment. 

[  There  come  three  loud  knocks  on  the  door.  WELL- 
WYN  and  ANN  exchange  a  glance  of  consterna- 
tion. 

ANN.  Who's  that? 

WELLWYN.  It  sounds  like  Sir  Thomas. 
CALWAY.  Sir  Thomas  Hoxton? 
WELLWYN.  [Nodding.]  Awfully  sorry,  Professor.  You 

see,  we 

CALWAY.  Not  at  all.     Only,  I  must  decline  to  be  in- 
volved in  argument  with  him,  please. 

BERTLEY.  He  has  experience.     We  might  get  his 
opinion,  don't  you  think? 

CALWAY.  On  a  point  of  reform  ?    A  J.P: ! 
BERTLEY.  [Deprecating.]  My  dear  Sir — we  needn't 
take  it. 

[The  three  knocks  resound  with  extraordinary  fury. 
ANN.  You'd  better  open  the  door,  Daddy. 

[WELLWYN  opens  the  door.  SIR  THOMAS  HOX- 
TON is  disclosed  in  a  fur  overcoat  and  top  hat. 
His  square,  well-coloured  face  is  remarkable  for 
a  massive  jaw,  dominating  all  that  comes  above 
it.  His  voice  is  resolute. 

HOXTON.  Afraid  I  didn't  make  myself  heard. 
WELLWYN.  So  good  of  you  to  come,  Sir  Thomas. 
Canon  Bertley!   [They  greet.]  Professor  Calway  you 
know,  I  think. 
HOXTON.  [Ominously.]  I  do. 

[They  almost  greet.    An  awkward  pause. 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  43 

ANN.  [Blurting  it  out.]  That  old  cabman  I  told  you 
of  s  been  drinking  father's  rum. 

BERTLEY.  We  were  just  discussing  what's  to  be  done 
with  him,  Sir  Thomas.  One  wants  to  do  the  very  best, 
of  course.  The  question  of  reform  is  always  delicate. 

CALWAY.  I  beg  your  pardon.  There  is  no  question 
here. 

HOXTON.  [Abruptly.]  Oh!    Is  he  in  the  house? 

ANN.  In  there. 

HOXTON.  Works  for  you,  eh? 

WELLWYN.  Er — yes. 

HOXTON.  Let's  have  a  look  at  him! 

[An  embarrassed  pause. 

BERTLEY.  Well — the  fact  is,  Sir  Thomas 

CALWAY.  When  last  under  observation 

ANN.  He  was  sitting  on  the  floor. 

WELLWYN.  I  don't  want  the  old  fellow  to  feel  he's 
being  made  a  show  of.  Disgusting  to  be  spied  at,  Ann. 

ANN.  You  can't,  Daddy!     He's  drunk. 

HOXTON.  Never  mind,  Miss  Wellwyn.  Hundreds  of 
these  fellows  before  me  in  my  time.  [At  CALWAY.]  The 
only  thing  is  a  sharp  lesson ! 

CALWAY.  I  disagree.     I've  seen  the  man;   what  he 

requires  is  steady  control,  and  the  Dobbins  treatment. 

[WELLWYN  approaches  them  with  fearful  interest. 

HOXTON.  Not  a  bit  of  it!  He  wants  one  for  his 
knob!  Brace  'em  up!  It's  the  only  thing. 

BERTLEY.  Personally,  I  think  that  if  he  were  spoken 
to  seriously 

CALWAY.  I  cannot  walk  arm  in  arm  with  a  crab! 


44  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

HOXTON.  [Approaching  CALWAT.]  I  beg  your  pardon  ? 

CALWAY.  [Moving  back  a  little.]  You're  moving  back- 
wards, Sir  Thomas.  I've  told  you  before,  convinced 

reactionaryism,  in  these  days 

[There  comes  a  single  knock  on  the  street  door. 

BERTLEY.  [Looking  at  his  watch.]  D'you  know,  I'm 
rather  afraid  this  may  be  our  young  husband,  Wellwyn. 
I  told  him  half-past  four. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  Ah!  Yes.  [Going  towards  the  two 
reformers.]  Shall  we  go  into  the  house,  Professor,  and 
settle  the  question  quietly  while  the  Vicar  sees  a  young 
man? 

CALWAY.  [Pale  with  uncompleted  statement,  and  gravi- 
tating insensibly  in  the  direction  indicated.]  The  merest 
sense  of  continuity — a  simple  instinct  for  order 

HOXTON.  [Folloiving.]  The  only  way  to  get  order,  sir, 
is  to  bring  the  disorderly  up  with  a  round  turn.  [CAL- 
WAY turns  to  him  in  the  doorway.]  You  people  without 
practical  experience 

CALWAY.  If  you'll  listen  to  me  a  minute. 

HOXTON.  I  can  show  you  in  a  mo 

[They  vanish  through  the  door. 

WELLWYN.  I  was  afraid  of  it. 

BERTLEY.  The  two  points  of  view.  Pleasant  to  see 
such  keenness.  I  may  want  you,  Wellwyn.  And  Ann 
perhaps  had  better  not  be  present. 

WELLWYN.  [Relieved.]  Quite  so!    My  dear! 

[ANN  goes  reluctantly.  WELLWYN  opens  the 
street  door.  The  lamp  outside  has  just  been 
lighted,  and,  by  its  gleam,  is  seen  the  figure  of 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  45 

RORY  MEGAN,  thin,  pale,  youthful.    ANN  turn- 
ing at  the  door  into  the  house  gives  him  a  long, 
inquisitive  look,  then  goes. 
WELLWYN.  Is  that  Megan  ? 
MEGAN.  Yus. 
WELLWYN.  Come  in. 

[MEGAN  comes  in.  There  follows  an  awkward 
silence,  during  which  WELLWYN  turns  up  the 
light,  then  goes  to  the  tea  table  and  pours  out  a 
glass  of  tea  and  rum. 

BERTLEY.  [Kindly.]  Now,  my  boy,  how  is  it  that 
you  and  your  wife  are  living  apart  like  this  ? 
MEGAN.  I  dunno. 

BERTLEY.  Well,  if  you  don't,  none  of  us  are  very 
likely  to,  are  we? 

MEGAN.  That's  what  I  thought,  as  I  was  comin' 
along. 

WELLWYN.  [Twinkling.]  Have  some  tea,  Megan? 
[Handing  him  the  glass.]  What  d'you  think  of  her  pic- 
ture? 'Tisn't  quite  finished. 

MEGAN.  [After  scrutiny.]  I  seen  her  look  like  it — 
once. 

WELLWYN.  Good!    When  was  that? 
MEGAN.  [Stoically.]  When  she  'ad  the  measles. 

[He  drinks. 

WELLWYN.  [Ruminating.]  I  see — yes.  I  quite  see — 
feverish! 

BERTLEY.  My  dear  Wellwyn,  let  me [To  ME- 
GAN.] Now,  I  hope  you're  willing  to  come  together 
again,  and  to  maintain  her? 


46  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

MEGAN.  If  she'll  maintain  me. 

BERTLEY.  Oh!  but I  see,  you  mean  you're  in 

the  same  line  of  business? 

MEGAN.  Yus. 

BERTLEY.  And  lean  on  each  other.     Quite  so! 

MEGAN.  I  leans  on  'er  mostly — with  'er  looks. 

BERTLEY.  Indeed!    Very  interesting — that! 

MEGAN.  Yus.     Sometimes  she'll  take  'arf  a  crown 
off  of  a  toff.  [He  looks  at  WELLWYN. 

WELLWYN.  [Twinkling.]  I  apologise  to  you,  Megan. 

MEGAN.  [With  a  faint  smile.]  I  could  do  with  a  bit 
more  of  it. 

BERTLEY.  [Dubiously.]  Yes!    Yes!    Now,  my  boy, 
I've  heard  you  bet  on  horses. 

MEGAN.  No,  I  don't. 

BERTLEY.  Play  cards,  then ?  Come!  Don't  be  afraid 
to  acknowledge  it. 

MEGAN.  When  I'm  'ard  up — yus. 

BERTLEY.  But  don't  you  know  that's  ruination? 

MEGAN.  Depends.     Sometimes  I  wins  a  lot. 

BERTLEY.  You  know  that's  not  at  all  what  I  mean. 
Come,  promise  me  to  give  it  up. 

MEGAN.  I  dunno  abaht  that. 

BERTLEY.  Now,  there's  a  good  fellow.     Make  a  big 
effort  and  throw  the  habit  off! 

MEGAN.  Comes  over  me — same  as  it  might  over  you. 

BERTLEY.  Over  me!    How  do  you  mean,  my  boy? 

MEGAN.  [With  a  look  up.]  To  tork! 

[WELLWYN,  turning  to  the  picture,  makes  a  funny 
little  noise. 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  47 

BEBTLET.  [Maintaining  his  good  humour.]  A  hit! 
But  you  forget,  you  know,  to  talk's  my  business.  It's 
not  yours  to  gamble. 

MEGAN.  You  try  sellin'  flowers.     If  that  ain't  a — 

gamble 

BERTLEY.  I'm  afraid  we're  wandering  a  little  from  the 
point.  Husband  and  wife  should  be  together.  You 

were  brought  up  to  that.     Your  father  and  mother 

MEGAN.  Never  was. 

WELLWYN.  [Turning  from  the  picture.]  The  question 
is,  Megan:  Will  you  take  your  wife  home?  She's  a 
good  little  soul. 

MEGAN.  She  never  let  me  know  it. 

[There  is  a  feeble  knock  on  the  door. 
WELLWYN.  Well,  now  come.    Here  she  is! 

[He  points  to  the  door,   and  stands  regarding 

MEGAN  with  his  friendly  smile. 
MEGAN.  [With  a  gleam  of  responsiveness.]  I  might, 
perhaps,  to  please  you,  sir. 

BERTLEY.  [Appropriating    the    gesture.]    Capital,    I 
thought  we  should  get  on  in  time. 
MEGAN.  Yus. 

[WELLWYN  opens  the  door.    MRS.  MEGAN  and 
FERRAND  are  revealed.     They  are  about  to  enter, 
but  catching  sight  of  MEGAN,  hesitate. 
BERTLEY.  Come  in!    Come  in! 

[MRS.  MEGAN  enters  stolidly.  FERRAND,  follow- 
ing, stands  apart  with  an  air  of  extreme  detach- 
ment. MEGAN,  after  a  quick  glance  at  them 


48  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

both,  remains  unmoved.  No  one  has  noticed 
that  the  door  of  the  model's  room  has  been  opened, 
and  that  the  unsteady  figure  of  old  TIMSON  i» 
standing  there. 

BERTLEY.  [A  little  awkward  in  the  presence  of  FER- 
RAND — to  the  MEGANS.]  This  begins  a  new  chapter. 
We  won't  improve  the  occasion.  No  need. 

[MEGAN,  turning  towards  his  wife,  makes  her  a 
gesture  as  if  to  say:  "Here!  let's  get  out  of 
this!" 

BERTLEY.  Yes,  yes,  you'll  like  to  get  home  at  once 
— I  know.  [He  holds  up  his  hand  mechanically. 

TIMSON.  I  forbids  the  banns. 
BERTLEY.  [Startled.]  Gracious! 
TIMSON.  [Extremely  unsteady.]  Just  cause  and  irn- 
pejiment.     There  'e  stands.  [He  points  to  FERRAND.] 
The  crimson  foreigner!    The  mockin'  jay! 
WELLWYN.  Timson! 

TIMSON.  You're  a  gen'leman — I'm  aweer  o'  that — 
but  I  must  speak  the  truth — [he  waves  his  hand]  an' 
shame  the  devil! 

BERTLEY.  Is  this  the  rum ? 

TIMSON.  [Struck  by  the  word.]  I'm  a  teetotaler. 
WELLWYN.  Timson,  Timson! 

TIMSON.  Seein'  as  there's  ladies  present,  I  won't  be 
conspicuous.  [Moving  away,  and  making  for  the  door, 
he  strikes  against  the  dais,  and  mounts  upon  it.]  But  what 
I  do  say,  is:  He's  no  better  than  'er  and  she's  worse. 
BERTLEY.  This  is  distressing. 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  49 

FERRAND.  [Calmly.]  On  my  honour,  Monsieur! 

[TIMSON  growls. 

WELLWYN.  Now,  now,  Timson! 

TIMSON.  That's  all  right.  You're  a  gen'leman,  an' 
I'm  a  gen'leman,  but  he  ain't  an'  she  ain't. 

WELLWYN.  We  shall  not  believe  you. 

BERTLEY.  No,  no;  we  shall  not  believe  you. 

TIMSON.  [Heavily.]  Very  well,  you  doubts  my  word. 
Will  it  make  any  difference,  Guv'nor,  if  I  speaks  the 
truth? 

BERTLEY.  No,  certainly  not — that  is — of  course,  it 
will. 

TIMSON.  Well,  then,  I  see  'em  plainer  than  I  see 
[pointing  at  BERTLEY]  the  two  of  you. 

WELLWYN.  Be  quiet,  Timson! 

BERTLEY.  Not  even  her  husband  believes  you. 

MEGAN.  [Suddenly.]  Don't  I ! 

WELLWYN.  Come,  Megan,  you  can  see  the  old  fel- 
low's in  Paradise. 

BERTLEY.  Do  you  credit  such  a — such  an  object? 
[He  points  at  TIMSON,  who  seems  falling  asleep. 

MEGAN.  Naow! 

[Unseen  by  anybody,  ANN  has  returned. 

BERTLEY.  Well,  then,  my  boy? 

MEGAN.  I  seen  'em  meself. 

BERTLEY.  Gracious!  But  just  now  you  were  will- 
ing  

MEGAN.  [Sardonically.]  There  wasn't  nothing  against 
me  honour,  then.  Now  you've  took  it  away  between 
you,  comin'  aht  with  it  like  this.  I  don't  want  no  more 


50  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

of  'er,  and  I'll  want  a  good  deal  more  of  'im;   as  Vll 
soon  find. 

[He  jerks  his  chin  at  FERRAND,  turns  slowly  on 
his  heel,  and  goes  out  into  the  street. 

[There  follows  a  profound  silence. 

ANN.  What  did  I  say,  Daddy?     Utter!     All  three. 

[Suddenly  alive  to  her  presence,  they  all  turn. 

TIMSON.  [Waking  up  and  looking  round  him.]  Well, 

p'raps  I'd  better  go. 

[Assisted  by  WELLWYN  he  lurches  gingerly  off  the 
dais  towards  the  door,  which  WELLWYN  holds 
open  for  him. 
TIMSON.  [Mechanically.]  Where  to,  sir? 

[Receiving  no  answer  he  passes  out,  touching  his 

hat;  and  the  door  is  closed. 
WELLWYN.  Ann! 

[ANN  goes  back  whence  she  came. 

[BERTLEY,  steadily  regarding  MRS.  MEGAN,  who 

has  put  her  arm  up  in  front  of  her  face,  beckons 

to  FERRAND,  and  the  young  man  comes  gravely 

forward. 

BERTLEY.  Young  people,  this  is  very  dreadful. 
[MRS.  MEGAN  lowers  her  arm  a  little,  and  looks  at  him 
over  it.]  Very  sad! 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Dropping  her  arm.]  Megan's  no  bet- 
ter than  what  I  am. 

BERTLEY.  Come,  come!  Here's  your  home  broken 
up!  [MRS.  MEGAN  smiles.  Shaking  his  head  gravely.] 
Surely — surely — you  mustn't  smile.  [MRS.  MEGAN  be- 
comes tragic.]  That's  better.  Now,  what  is  to  be  done  ? 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  51 

FEERAND.  Believe  me,  Monsieur,  I  greatly  regret. 

BERTLET.  I'm  glad  to  hear  it. 

FERRAND.  If  I  had  foreseen  this  disaster. 

BERTLEY.  Is  that  your  only  reason  for  regret? 

FERRAND.  [With  a  little  bow.]  Any  reason  that  you 
wish,  Monsieur.  I  will  do  my  possible. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  could  get  an  unfurnished  room  if 
[she  slides  her  eyes  round  at  WELLWYN]  I  'ad  the  money 
to  furnish  it. 

BERTLEY.  But  suppose  I  can  induce  your  husband  to 
forgive^you,  and  take  you  back? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Shaking  her  head.]  'E'd  'it  me. 

BERTLEY.  I  said  to  forgive. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  That  wouldn't  make  no  difference. 
[With  a  flash  at  BERTLEY.]  An'  I  ain't  forgiven  him! 

BERTLEY.  That  is  sinful. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I'm  a  Catholic. 

BERTLEY.  My  good  child,  what  difference  does  that 
make? 

FERRAND.  Monsieur,  if  I  might  interpret  for  her. 

[BERTLEY  silences  him  with  a  gesture. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Sliding  her  eyes  towards  WELLWYN.] 
If  I  'ad  the  money  to  buy  some  fresh  stock. 

BERTLEY.  Yes;  yes;  never  mind  the  money.  What 
I  want  to  find  in  you  both,  is  repentance. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [With  a  flash  up  at  him.]  I  can't  get 
me  livin'  off  of  repentin'. 

BERTLEY.  Now,  now!  Never  say  what  you  know 
to  be  wrong. 

FERRAND.  Monsieur,  her  soul  is  very  simple. 


52  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

BERTLEY.  [Severely.]  I  do  not  know,  sir,  that  we 
shall  get  any  great  assistance  from  your  views.  In 
fact,  one  thing  is  clear  to  me,  she  must  discontinue 
your  acquaintanceship  at  once. 

FERBAND.  Certainly,  Monsieur.  We  have  no  serious 
intentions. 

BERTLEY.  All  the  more  shame  to  you,  then! 

FERRAND.  Monsieur,  I  see  perfectly  your  point  of 
view.  It  is  very  natural.  [He  bows  and  is  silent. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  don't  want  'im  hurt  'cos  o'  me.  Me- 
gan'll  get  his  mates  to  belt  him — bein'  foreign  like  he  is. 

BERTLEY.  Yes,  never  mind  that.  It's  you  I'm  think- 
ing of. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I'd  sooner  they'd  hit  me. 

WELLWYN.  [Suddenly.]  Well  said,  my  child! 

MRS.  MEGAN.  'Twasn't  his  fault. 

FERRAND.  [Without  irony — to  WELLWYN.]  I  cannot 
accept  that  Monsieur.  The  blame — it  is  all  mine. 

ANN.  [Entering   suddenly  from   the   house.]  Daddy, 

they're  having  an  awful ! 

[The  voices  of  PROFESSOR  CALWAY  and  SIR 
THOMAS  HOXTON  are  distinctly  heard. 

CALWAY.  The  question  is  a  much  wider  one,  Sir 
Thomas. 

HOXTON.  As  wide  as  you  like,  you'll  never 

[WELLWYN  pushes  ANN  back  into  the  house  and 
closes  the  door  behind  her.  The  voices  are  still 
faintly  heard  arguing  on  the  threshold. 

BERTLEY.  Let  me  go  in  here  a  minute,  Wellwyn.  I 
must  finish  speaking  to  her.  [He  motions  MRS.  MEGAN 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  53 

towards  the  model's  room.]  We  can't  leave  the  matter 
thus. 

FEKRAND.  [Suavely.]  Do  you  desire  my  company, 
Monsieur? 

[BERTLEY,  with  a  prohibitive  gesture  of  his  hand, 
shepherds  the  reluctant  MRS.  MEGAN  into  the 
model's  room. 

WELLWYN.  [Sorrowfully.]  You  shouldn't  have  done 
this,  Ferrand.  It  wasn't  the  square  thing. 

FERRAND.  [With  dignity.]  Monsieur,  I  feel  that  I  am 
in  the  wrong.  It  was  stronger  than  me. 

[As  he  speaks,  SIR  THOMAS  HOXTON  and  PRO- 
FESSOR CALWAY  enter  from  the  house.    In  the 
dim  light,  and  the  full  cry  of  argument,  they  do 
not  notice  the  figures  at  the  fire.    SIR  THOMAS 
HOXTON  leads  towards  the  street  door. 
HOXTON.  No,  sir,  I  repeat,  if  the  country  once  com- 
mits itself  to  your  views  of  reform,  it's  as  good  as 
doomed. 

CALWAY.  I  seem  to  have  heard  that  before,  Sir 
Thomas.  And  let  me  say  at  once  that  your  hitty- 

missy  cart-load  of  bricks  regime 

HOXTON.  Is  a  deuced  sight  better,  sir,  than  your 
grand-motherly  methods.  What  the  old  fellow  wants 
is  a  shock!  With  all  this  socialistic  molly-coddling, 
you're  losing  sight  of  the  individual. 

CALWAY.  [Swiftly.]  You,  sir,  with  your  "devil  take 
the  hindmost,"  have  never  even  seen  him. 

[SiR  THOMAS  HOXTON,  throwing  back  a  gesture  of 
disgust,  steps  out  into  the  night,  and  falls  heavily. 


54  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

PROFESSOR  CALWAY,  hastening  to  his  rescue, 
fails  more  heavily  still. 
[TIMSON,  momentarily  roused  from  slumber  on  the 

doorstep,  sits  up. 

HOXTON.  [Struggling  to  his  knees.]  Damnation! 
CALWAY.  [Sitting.]  How  simultaneous! 

[WELLWYN  and  FERRAND  approach  hastily. 
FERRAND.  [Pointing  to  TIMSON.]  Monsieur,  it  was 
true,  it  seems.     They  had  lost  sight  of  the  individual. 
[A  Policeman  has  appeared  under  the  street  lamp. 

He  picks  up  HOXTON'S  hat. 
CONSTABLE.  Anything  wrong,  sir? 
HOXTON.  [Recovering  his  feet.]  Wrong?    Great  Scott! 
Constable!    Why  do  you  let  things  lie  about  in  the 
street  like  this?    Look  here,  Wellwyn! 

[They  all  scrutinize  TIMSON. 

WELLWYN.  It's  only  the  old  fellow  whose  reform 
you  were  discussing. 

HOXTON.  How  did  he  come  here? 
CONSTABLE.  Drunk,  sir.  [Ascertaining  TIMSON  to  be 
in  the  street.]  Just  off  the  premises,   by  good  luck. 
Come  along,  father. 

TIMSON.  [Assisted  to  his  feet — drowsily.]  Cert'nly,  by 
no  means;  take  my  arm. 

[They   move  from   the   doorway.     HOXTON   and 

CALWAY  re-enter,  and  go  towards  the  fire. 
ANN.  [Entering  from  the  house.]  What's  happened? 
CALWAY.  Might  we  have  a  brush? 
HOXTON.  [Testily. ]  Let  it  dry! 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  55 

[He  moves  to  the  fire  and  stands  before  it.  PRO- 
FESSOR CALWAY/o/Zowm<7  stands  a  little  behind 
him.  ANN  returning  begins  to  brush  the  PRO- 
FESSOR'S sleeve. 

WELLWYN.  [Turning  from  the  door,  where  he  has  stood 
looking  after  the  receding  TIMSON.]  Poor  old  Timson! 

FERRAND.  [Softly.]  Must  be  philosopher,  Monsieur! 
They  will  but  run  him  in  a  little. 

[From  the  model's  room  MRS.  MEGAN  has  come 
out,  shepherded  by  CANON  BERTLEY. 

BERTLEY.  Let's  see,  your  Christian  name  is . 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Guinevere. 

BERTLEY.  Oh!   Ah!   Ah!    Ann,  take  Gui take 

our  little  friend  into  the  study  a  minute:  I  am  going  to 
put  her  into  service.  We  shall  make  a  new  woman  of 
her,  yet. 

ANN.  [Handing  CANON  BERTLEY  the  brush,  and  turn- 
ing to  MRS.  MEGAN.]  Come  on! 

[She  leads  into  the  house,  and  MRS.  MEGAN  follows 

stolidly. 

BERTLEY.  [Brushing    CALWAY'S    back.]  Have    you 
fallen? 

CALWAY.  Yes. 

BERTLEY.  Dear  me!    How  was  that? 
HOXTON.  That  old  ruffian  drunk  on  the  doorstep. 
Hope  they'll  give  him  a  sharp  dose !     These  rag-tags ! 

[He  looks  round,  and  his  angry  eyes  light  by  chance 

on  FERRAND. 
FERRAND.  [With  his  eyes  on  HOXTON — softly.]  Mon- 


56  THE  PIGEON  ACT  n 

sieur,  something  tells  me  it  is  time  I  took  the  road 
again. 

WELLWYN.  [Fumbling  out  a  sovereign.]  Take  this, 
then! 

FERRAND.  [Refusing  the  coin.]  Non,  Monsieur.    To 
abuse  'ospitality  is  not  in  my  character. 
BERTLEY.  We  must  not  despair  of  anyone. 
HOXTON.  Who  talked  of  despairing?    Treat  him,  as 
I  say,  and  you'll  see! 

CALWAY.  The  interest  of  the  State 

HOXTON.  The    interest    of    the    individual    citizen 

sir 

BERTLEY.  Come!    A  little  of  both,  a  little  of  both! 

[They  resume  their  brushing. 

FERRAND.  You  are  now  debarrassed  of  us  three, 
Monsieur.  I  leave  you  instead — these  sirs.  [He  points.] 
Au  revoir,  Monsieur!  [Motioning  towards  the  fire.] 
'Appy  New  Year! 

[He  slips  quietly  out.  WELLWYN,  turning,  con- 
templates the  three  reformers.  They  are  all  now 
brushing  away,  scratching  each  other's  backs, 
and  gravely  hissing.  As  he  approaches  them, 
they  speak  with  a  certain  unanimity. 

HOXTON.  My  theory ! 

CALWAY.  My  theory ! 

BERTLEY.  My  theory ! 

[They  stop  surprised.  WELLWYN  makes  a  gesture 
of  discomfort,  as  they  speak  again  with  stitt  more 
unanimity. 


ACT  n  THE  PIGEON  57 

HOXTON.  My ! 

CALWAT.  My ! 

BERTLEY.  My ! 

[They  stop  in  greater  surprise. 
The  stage  is  blotted  dark. 

Curtain. 


It  is  the  first  of  April — a  white  spring  day  of  gleams  and 
driving  showers.  The  street  door  of  WELLWYN'S 
studio  stands  wide  open,  and,  past  it,  in  the  street, 
the  wind  is  whirling  bits  of  straw  and  paper  bags. 
Through  the  door  can  be  seen  the  butt  end  of  a  sta- 
tionary furniture  van  with  its  flap  let  down.  To  this 
van  three  humble-men  in  shirt  sleeves  and  aprons, 
are  carrying  out  the  contents  of  the  studio.  The  hiss- 
ing samovar,  the  tea-pot,  the  sugar,  and  the  nearly 
empty  decanter  of  rum  stand  on  the  low  round  table 
in  the  fast-being-gutted  room.  WELLWYN  in  his 
idster  and  soft  hat,  is  squatting  on  the  little  stool  in 
front  of  the  blazing  fire,  staring  into  it,  and  smoking 
a  hand-made  cigarette.  He  has  a  moulting  air. 
Behind  him  the  humble-men  pass,  embracing  busts 
and  other  articles  of  vertu. 

CHIEF  H'MAN.  [Stopping,  and  standing  in  the  attitude 
of  expectation.]  We've  about  pinched  this  little  lot,  sir. 
Shall  we  take  the — reservoir? 

[He  indicates  the  samovar. 

WELLWYN.  Ah!  [Abstractedly  feeling  in  his  pockets, 
and  finding  coins.]  Thanks — thanks — heavy  work,  I'm 
afraid. 

59 


60  THE  PIGEON  ACT  ra 

H'MAN.  [Receiving  the  coins — a  little  surprised  and  a 
good  deed  pleased.]  Thank'ee,  sir.  Much  obliged,  I'm 
sure.  We'll  'ave  to  come  back  for  this.  [He  gives  the 
dais  a  vigorous  push  with  his  foot]  Not  a  fixture,  as  I 
understand.  Perhaps  you'd  like  us  to. leave  these  'ere 
for  a  bit.  [He  indicates  the  tea  things. 

WELLWYN.  Ah!  do. 

[The  humble-men  go  out.  There  is  the  sound  of 
horses  being  started,  and  the  butt  end  of  the  van 
disappears.  WELLWYN  stays  on  his  stool, 
smoking  and  brooding  over  the  fire.  The  open 
doorway  is  darkened  by  a  figure.  CANON  BERT- 
LEY  is  standing  there. 

BERTLEY.  Wellwyn!  [WELLWYN  turns  and  rises.] 
It's  ages  since  I  saw  you.  No  idea  you  were  moving. 
This  is  very  dreadful. 

WELLWYN.  Yes,  Ann  found  this — too  exposed.   That 
tall  house  in  Flight  Street — we're  going  there.    Seventh 
floor. 
BERTLEY.  Lift? 

[WELLWYN  shakes  his  head. 

BERTLEY.  Dear  me!  No  lift?  Fine  view,  no  doubt. 
[WELLWYN  nods.]  You'll  be  greatly  missed. 

WELLWYN.  So  Ann  thinks.  Vicar,  what's  become 
of  that  little  flower-seller  I  was  painting  at  Christmas? 
You  took  her  into  service. 

BERTLEY.  Not  we — exactly!    Some  dear  friends  of 
ours.    Painful  subject! 
WELLWYN.  Oh! 
BERTLEY.  Yes.    She  got  the  footman  into  trouble. 


ACT  ra  THE  PIGEON  61 

WELLWYN.  Did  she,  now? 

BERTLEY.  Disappointing.  I  consulted  with  Calway, 
and  he  advised  ine  to  try  a  certain  institution.  We  got 
her  safely  in — excellent  place;  but,  d'you  know,  she 
broke  out  three  weeks  ago.  And  since — I've  heard — 
[he  holds  his  hands  up}  hopeless,  I'm  afraid — quite! 

WELLWTN.  I  thought  I  saw  her  last  night.  You  can't 
tell  me  her  address,  I  suppose  ? 

BEBTLEY.  [Shaking  his  head.]  The  husband  too  has 
quite  passed  out  of  my  ken.  He  betted  on  horses,  you 
remember.  I'm  sometimes  tempted  to  believe  there's 
nothing  for  some  of  these  poor  folk  but  to  pray  for 
death. 

[ANN  has  entered  from  the  house.  Her  hair  hangs 
from  under  a  knitted  cap.  She  wears  a  white 
wool  jersey,  and  a  loose  silk  scarf. 

BERTLEY.  Ah!  Ann.  I  was  telling  your  father  of 
that  poor  little  Mrs.  Megan. 

ANN.  Is  she  dead? 

BERTLEY.  Worse  I  fear.  By  the  way — what  became 
of  her  accomplice  ? 

ANN.  We  haven't  seen  him  since.  [She  looks  search- 
ingly  at  WELLWYN.]  At  least — have  you — Daddy? 

WELLWYN.  [Rather  hurt.}  No,  my  dear;  I  have  not. 

BERTLEY.  And  the — old  gentleman  who  drank  the 
rum? 

ANN.  He  got  fourteen  days.    It  was  the  fifth  time. 

BERTLEY.  Dear  me! 

ANN.  When  he  came  out  he  got  more  drunk  than 
ever.  Rather  a  score  for  Professor  Calway,  wasn't  it? 


62  THE  PIGEON  ACT  m 

BEBTLEY.  I  remember.  He  and  Sir  Thomas  took 
a  kindly  interest  in  the  old  fellow. 

ANN.  Yes,  they  fell  over  him.  The  Professor  got 
him  into  an  Institution. 

BEKTLEY.  Indeed! 

ANN.  He  was  perfectly  sober  all  the  time  he  was 
there. 

WELLWYN.  My  dear,  they  only  allow  them  milk. 

ANN.  Well,  anyway,  he  was  reformed. 

WELLWYN.  Ye — yes! 

ANN.  [Terribly.]  Daddy!    You've  been  seeing  him! 

WELLWYN.  [With  dignity.]  My  dear,  I  have  not. 

ANN.  How  do  you  know,  then? 

WELLWYN.  Came  across  Sir  Thomas  on  the  Em- 
bankment yesterday;  told  me  old  Timson  had  been 
had  up  again  for  sitting  down  in  front  of  a  brewer's 
dray. 

ANN.  Why? 

WELLWYN.  Well,  you  see,  as  soon  as  he  came  out 
of  the  what  d'you  call  'em,  he  got  drunk  for  a  week, 
and  it  left  him  in  low  spirits. 

BEBTLEY.  Do  you  mean  he  deliberately  sat  down, 
with  the  intention — of — er? 

WELLWYN.  Said  he  was  tired  of  life,  but  they  didn't 
believe  him. 

ANN.  Rather  a  score  for  Sir  Thomas!  I  suppose 
he'd  told  the  Professor  ?  What  did  he  say  ? 

WELLWYN.  Well,  the  Professor  said  [with  a  quick 
glance  at  BERTLEY]  he  felt  there  was  nothing  for  some 
of  these  poor  devils  but  a  lethal  chamber. 


ACT  ra  THE  PIGEON  63 

BERTLET.  [Shocked.]  Did  he  really! 

[He  has  not  yet  caught  WELLWYN'S  glance. 

WELLWYN.  And  Sir  Thomas  agreed.  Historic  oc- 
casion. And  you,  Vicar — H'm! 

[BEETLEY  winces. 

ANN.  [To  herself.]  Well,  there  isn't. 

BERTLEY.  And  yet!  Some  good  in  the  old  fellow,  no 
doubt,  if  one  could  put  one's  finger  on  it.  [Preparing  to 
go.]  You'll  let  us  know,  then,  when  you're  settled. 
What  was  the  address?  [WELLWYN  takes  out  and  hands 
him  a  card.]  Ah!  yes.  Good-bye,  Ann.  Good-bye, 
Wellwyn.  [The  wind  blows  his  hat  along  the  street.] 
What  a  wind!  [He  goes,  pursuing. 

ANN.  [Who  has  eyed  the  card  askance.]  Daddy,  have 
you  told  those  other  two  where  we're  going? 

WELLWYN.  Which  other  two,  my  dear? 

ANN.  The  Professor  and  Sir  Thomas. 

WELLWYN.  Well,  Ann,  naturally  I 

ANN.  [Jumping  on  to  the  dais  with  disgust.]  Oh,  dear! 
When  I'm  trying  to  get  you  away  from  all  this  atmos- 
phere. I  don't  so  much  mind  the  Vicar  knowing,  be- 
cause he's  got  a  weak  heart 

[She  jumps  off  again. 

WELLWYN.  [To  himself.]  Seventh  floor!  I  felt  there 
was  something. 

ANN.  [Preparing  to  go.]  I'm  going  round  now.  But 
you  must  stay  here  till  the  van  comes  back.  And  don't 
forget  you  tipped  the  men  after  the  first  load. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  yes,  yes.  [Uneasily.]  Good  sorts 
they  look,  those  fellows! 


64  THE  PIGEON  ACT  ra 

ANN.  [Scrutinising  him.]  What  have  you  done? 

WELLWYN.  Nothing,  my  dear,  really ! 

ANN.  What? 

WELLWYN.  I — I  rather  think  I  may  have  tipped 
them  twice. 

ANN.  [Drily.]  Daddy!  If  it  is  the  first  of  April,  it's 
not  necessary  to  make  a  fool  of  oneself.  That's  the 
last  time  you  ever  do  these  ridiculous  things.  [WELL- 
WYN eyes  her  askance.]  I'm  going  to  see  that  you  spend 
your  money  on  yourself.  You  needn't  look  at  me  like 
that!  I  mean  to.  As  soon  as  I've  got  you  away  from 

here,  and  all — these 

WELLWYN.  Don't  rub  it  in,  Ann! 
ANN.  [Giving  him  a  sudden  hug — then  going  to  the 
door — with  a  sort  of  triumph.}    Deeds,   not   words, 
Daddy! 

[She  goes  out,  and  the  wind  catching  her  scarf 
blows  it  out  beneath  her  firm  young  chin.  WELL- 
WYN returning  to  the  fire,  stands  brooding,  and 
gazing  at  his  extinct  cigarette. 

WELLWYN.  [To  himself.]  Bad  lot — low  type!  No 
method!  No  theory! 

[In  the  open  doorway  appear  FERRAND  and  MRS. 
MEGAN.  They  stand,  unseen,  looking  at  him. 
FERRAND  is  more  ragged,  if  possible,  than  on 
Christmas  Eve.  His  chin  and  cheeks  are  clothed 
in  a  reddish  golden  beard.  MRS.  MEGAN'S 
dress  is  not  so  woe-begone,  but  her  face  is  white, 
her  eyes  dark-circled.  They  whisper.  She  slips 
back  into  the  shadow  of  the  doorway.  WELL- 


ACT  m  THE  PIGEON  65 

WYN  turns  at  the  sound,  and  stares  at  FERRAND 
in  amazement. 

FERRAND.  [Advancing.]  Enchanted  to  see  you,  Mon- 
sieur. [He  looks  round  the  empty  room.]  You  are  leaving  ? 

WELLWTN.  [Nodding — then  taking  the  young  man's 
hand.]  How  goes  it? 

FERRAND.  [Displaying  himself,  simply.]  As  you  see, 
Monsieur.  I  have  done  of  my  best.  It  still  flies  from 
me. 

WELLWYN.  [Sadly — as  if  against  his  will.]  Ferrand, 
it  will  always  fly. 

[The  young  foreigner  shivers  suddenly  from  head 
to  foot;  then  controls  himself  with  a  great  effort. 

FERRAND.  Don't  say  that,  Monsieur!  It  is  too 
much  the  echo  of  my  heart. 

WELLWTN.  Forgive  me!    I  didn't  mean  to  pain  you. 

FERRAND.  [Drawing  nearer  the  fire.]  That  old  cabby, 
Monsieur,  you  remember — they  tell  me,  he  nearly  suc- 
ceeded to  gain  happiness  the  other  day. 

[WELLWYN  nods. 

FERRAND.  And  those  Sirs,  so  interested  in  him,  with 
their  theories?  He  has  worn  them  out?  [WELLWYN 
nods.]  That  goes  without  saying.  And  now  they  wish 
for  him  the  lethal  chamber. 

WELLWYN.  [Startled.]  How  did  you  know  that? 

[There  is  silence. 

FERRAND.  [Staring  into  the  fire.]  Monsieur,  while  I 
was  on  the  road  this  time  I  fell  ill  of  a  fever.  It  seemed 
to  me  in  my  illness  that  I  saw  the  truth — how  I  was 
wasting  in  thia  world — I  would  never  be  good  for  any 


66  THE  PIGEON  ACT  ra 

one — nor  any  one  for  me — all  would  go  by,  and  I  never 
of  it — fame,  and  fortune,  and  peace,  even  the  necessi- 
ties of  life,  ever  mocking  me. 

[He  draws  closer  to  the  fire,  spreading  his  fingers 
to  the  flame.  And  while  he  is  speaking,  through 
the  doorway  MRS.  MEGAN  creeps  in  to  listen. 

FERBAND.  [Speaking  on  into  the  fire.}  And  I  saw, 
Monsieur,  so  plain,  that  I  should  be  vagabond  all  my 
days,  and  my  days  short,  I  dying  in  the  end  the  death 
of  a  dog.  I  saw  it  all  in  my  fever — clear  as  that  flame 
— there  was  nothing  for  us  others,  but  the  herb  of  death. 
[WELLWTN  takes  his  arm  and  presses  it.]  And  so,  Mon- 
sieur, I  wished  to  die.  I  told  no  one  of  my  fever.  I 
lay  out  on  the  ground — it  was  verree  cold.  But  they 
would  not  let  me  die  on  the  roads  of  their  parishes — 
they  took  me  to  an  Institution,  Monsieur,  I  looked  in 
their  eyes  while  I  lay  there,  and  I  saw  more  clear  than 
the  blue  heaven  that  they  thought  it  best  that  I  should 
die,  although  they  would  not  let  me.  Then  Monsieur, 
naturally  my  spirit  rose,  and  I  said:  "So  much  the 
worse  for  you.  I  will  live  a  little  more."  One  is  made 
like  that!  Life  is  sweet,  Monsieur. 

WELLWYN.  Yes,  Ferrand ;  Life  is  sweet. 

FERRAND.  That  little  girl  you  had  here,  Monsieur — 
[WELLWYN  nods.]  in  her  too  there  is  something  of  wild- 
savage.  She  must  have  joy  of  life.  I  have  seen  her 
since  I  came  back.  She  has  embraced  the  life  of  joy. 
It  is  not  quite  the  same  thing.  [He  lowers  his  voice.}  She 
is  lost,  Monsieur,  as  a  stone  that  sinks  in  water.  I  can 
see,  if  she  cannot.  [-4$  WELLWYN  makes  a  movement  of 


ACT  ra  THE  PIGEON  67 

distress.]  Oh!  I  am  not  to  blame  for  that,  Monsieur. 
It  had  well  begun  before  I  knew  her. 

WELLWYN.  Yes,  yes — I  was  afraid  of  it,  at  the  time. 
[Mils.  MEGAN  turns  silently,  and  slips  away. 

FERRAND.  I  do  my  best  for  her,  Monsieur,  but  look 
at  me!  Besides,  I  am  not  good  for  her — it  is  not  good 
for  simple  souls  to  be  with  those  who  see  things  clear. 
For  the  great  part  of  mankind,  to  see  anything — is 
fatal. 

WELLWTN.  Even  for  you,  it  seems. 

FERRAND.  No,  Monsieur.  To  be  so  near  to  death 
has  done  me  good;  I  shall  not  lack  courage  any  more 
till  the  wind  blows  on  my  grave.  Since  I  saw  you, 
Monsieur,  I  have  been  in  three  Institutions.  They  are 
palaces.  One  may  eat  upon  the  floor — though  it  is 
true — for  Kings — they  eat  too  much  of  skilly  there. 
One  little  thing  they  lack — those  palaces.  It  is  under- 
standing of  the  'uman  heart.  In  them  tame  birds 
pluck  wild  birds  naked. 

WELLWYN.  They  mean  well. 

FERRAND.  Ah!  Monsieur,  I  am  loafer,  waster — 
what  you  like — for  all  that  [bitterly]  poverty  is  my  only 
crime.  If  I  were  rich,  should  I  not  be  simply  veree 
original,  'ighly  respected,  with  soul  above  commerce, 
travelling  to  see  the  world?  And  that  young  girl, 
would  she  not  be  "that  charming  ladee,"  "veree  chic, 
you  know!"  And  the  old  Tims — good  old-fashioned 
gentleman — drinking  his  liquor  well.  Eh!  bien — what 
are  we  now?  Dark  beasts,  despised  by  all.  That  is 
life,  Monsieur.  [He  stares  into  the  fire. 


68  THE  PIGEON  ACT  ra 

WELLWYN.  We're  our  own  enemies,  Ferrand.  I  can 
afford  it — you  can't.  Quite  true! 

FERRAND.  [Earnestly.]  Monsieur,  do  you  know  this? 
You  are  the  sole  being  that  can  do  us  good — we  hope- 
less ones. 

WELLWYN.  [Shaking  his  head.]  Not  a  bit  of  it;  I'm 
hopeless  too. 

FERRAND.  [Eagerly.]  Monsieur,  it  is  just  that.  You 
understand.  When  we  are  with  you  we  feel  something 
— here — [he  touches  his  heart.]  If  I  had  one  prayer  to 
make,  it  would  be,  Good  God,  give  me  to  understand! 
Those  sirs,  with  their  theories,  they  can  clean  our  skins 
and  chain  our  'abits — that  soothes  for  them  the  aesthetic 
sense;  it  gives  them  too  their  good  little  importance. 
But  our  spirits  they  cannot  touch,  for  they  nevare 
understand.  Without  that,  Monsieur,  all  is  dry  as  a 
parched  skin  of  orange. 

WELLWYN.  Don't  be  so  bitter.  Think  of  all  the 
work  they  do! 

FERRAND.  Monsieur,  of  their  industry  I  say  nothing. 
They  do  a  good  work  while  they  attend  with  their 
theories  to  the  sick  and  the  tame  old,  and  the  good  un- 
fortunate deserving.  Above  all  to  the  little  children. 
But,  Monsieur,  when  all  is  done,  there  are  always  us 
hopeless  ones.  What  can  they  do  with  me,  Monsieur, 
with  that  girl,  or  with  that  old  man?  Ah!  Monsieur, 
we,  too,  'ave  our  qualities,  we  others — it  wants  you 
courage  to  undertake  a  career  like  mine,  or  like  that 
young  girl's.  We  wild  ones — we  know  a  thousand 
times  more  of  life  than  ever  will  those  sirs.  They  waste 


ACT  ra  THE  PIGEON  69 

their  time  trying  to  make  rooks  white.  Be  kind  to  us 
if  you  will,  or  let  us  alone  like  Mees  Ann,  but  do  not 
try  to  change  our  skins.  Leave  us  to  live,  or  leave  us 
to  die  when  we  like  in  the  free  air.  If  you  do  not  wish 
of  us,  you  have  but  to  shut  your  pockets  and  your  doors 
— we  shall  die  the  faster. 

WELLWYN.  [With  agitation.]  But  that,  you  know — 
we  can't  do — now  can  we? 

FERRAND.  If  you  cannot,  how  is  it  our  fault?  The 
harm  we  do  to  others — is  it  so  much  ?  If  I  am  criminal, 
dangerous — shut  me  up!  I  would  not  pity  myself — 
nevare.  But  we  in  whom  something  moves — like  that 
flame,  Monsieur,  that  cannot  keep  still — we  others — 
we  are  not  many — that  must  have  motion  in  our  lives, 
do  not  let  them  make  us  prisoners,  with  their  theories, 
because  we  are  not  like  them — it  is  life  itself  they  would 
enclose!  [He  draws  up  his  tattered  figure,  then  bending 
over  the  fire  again.]  I  ask  your  pardon;  I  am  talking. 
If  I  could  smoke,  Monsieur! 

[WELLWYN  hands  him  a  tobacco  pouch;  and  he 
rolls  a  cigarette  with  his  yellow-stained  fingers. 

FERRAND.  The  good  God  made  me  so  that  I  would 
rather  walk  a  whole  month  of  nights,  hungry,  with 
the  stars,  than  sit  one  single  day  making  round  busi- 
ness on  an  office  stool!  It  is  not  to  my  advantage. 
I  cannot  help  it  that  I  am  a  vagabond.  What  would 
you  have?  It  is  stronger  than  me.  [lie  looks  suddenly 
at  WELLWYN.]  Monsieur,  I  say  to  you  things  I  have 
never  said. 

WELLWYN.  [Quietly.}  Go  on,  go  on.  [There  is  silence. 


70  THE  PIGEON  ACT  m 

FERRAND.  [Suddenly.]  Monsieur!    Are    you    really 
English?    The  English  are  so  civilised. 
WELLWYN.  And  am  I  not? 
FERRAND.  You  treat  me  like  a  brother. 

[WELLWYN  has  turned  towards  the  street  door  at 

a  sound  of  feet,  and  the  clamour  of  voices. 
TIMSON.  [From  the  street.]  Take  her  in  'ere.    I  knows 
int. 

[Through  the  open  doorway  come  a  POLICE  CON- 
STABLE and  a  LOAFER,  bearing  between  them  the 
limp  white-faced  form  of  MRS.  MEGAN,  hatless 
and  with  drowned  hair,  enveloped  in  the  police- 
man's waterproof.  Some  curious  persons  bring 
up  the  rear,  jostling  in  the  doorway,  among  whom 
is  TIMSON  carrying  in  his  hands  the  policeman's 
dripping  waterproof  leg  pieces. 

FERRAND.  [Starting  forward.]  Monsieur,  it  is  that 
little  girl! 

WELLWYN.  What's  happened?  Constable!    What's 
happened ! 

[The  CONSTABLE  and  LOAFER  have  laid  the  body 
down  on  the  dais;   with  WELLWYN  and  FER- 
RAND they  stand  bending  over  her. 
CONSTABLE.  'Tempted  sooicide,  sir;  but  she  hadn't 
been  in  the  water  'arf  a  minute  when  I  got  hold  of  her. 
[He  bends  lower.]  Can't  understand  her  collapsin'  like 
this. 

WELLWYN.  [Feeling  her  heart.]  I  don't  feel  anything. 
FERRAND.  [In  a  voice  sharpened  by  emotion.]  Let  me 
try,  Monsieur. 


ACT  m  THE  PIGEON  71 

CONSTABLE.  [Touching  his  arm.]  You  keep  off,  my 
lad. 

WELLWTN.  No,  constable — let  him.  He's  her  friend. 
CONSTABLE.  [Releasing  FEKBAND — to  the  LOAFER.] 
Here  you !  Cut  off  for  a  doctor — sharp  now !  [He  pushes 
back  the  curious  persons.]  Now  then,  stand  away  there, 
please — we  can't  have  you  round  the  body.  Keep 
back — Clear  out,  now! 

[He  slowly  moves  them  back,  and  at  last  shepherds 
them  through  the  door  and  shuts  it  on  them, 
TIMSON  being  last. 
FERRAND.  The  rum! 

[WELLWYN  fetches  the  decanter.     With  the  little 
there  is  left  FERRAND  chafes  the  girl's  hands  and 
forehead,   and  pours   some   between  her  lips. 
But  there  is  no  response  from  the  inert  body. 
FERRAND.  Her  soul  is  still  away,  Monsieur! 

[WELLWYN,  seizing  the  decanter,  pours  into  it  tea 

and  boiling  water. 

CONSTABLE.  It's  never  drownin',  sir — her  head  was 
hardly  under;  I  was  on  to  her  like  knife. 

FERRAND.  [Rubbing  her  feet.]  She  has  not  yet  her 
philosophy,  Monsieur;  at  the  beginning  they  often  try. 
If  she  is  dead!  [In  a  voice  of  awed  rapture.]  What  for- 
tune! 

CONSTABLE.  [With  puzzled  sadness.]  True  enough, 
sir — that!  We'd  just  begun  to  know  'er.  If  she  'as 
been  taken — her  best  friends  couldn't  wish  'er  better. 

WELLWYN.  [Applying  the  decanter  to  her  lips.]  Poor 
little  thing!  I'll  try  this  hot  tea. 


72  THE  PIGEON  ACT  ra 

FERBAND.  [Whispering.]  La  mart — le  grand  ami! 
WELLWYN.  Look!    Look    at    her!    She's    eoming 
round! 

[A  faint  tremor  passes  over  MRS.  MEGAN'S  body. 
He  again  applies  the  hot  drink  to  her  mouth. 
She  stirs  and  gulps. 

CONSTABLE.  [With  intense  relief.]  That's  brave! 
Good  lass!  She'll  pick  up  now,  sir. 

[Then,  seeing  that  TIMSON  and  the  curious  persons 
have  again  opened  the  door,  he  drives  them  out, 
and  stands  with  his  back  against  it.  MRS. 
MEGAN  comes  to  herself. 

WELLWYN.  [Sitting  on  the  dais  and  supporting  her — 
as  if  to  a  child.]  There  you  are,  my  dear.  There, 
there — better  now!  That's  right.  Drink  a  little  more 
of  this  tea. 

[MRS.  MEGAN  drinks  from  the  decanter. 
FERRAND.  [Rising.]  Bring  her  to  the  fire,  Monsieur. 
[They  take  her  to  the  fire  and  seat  her  on  the  little 
stool.     From  the  moment  of  her  restored  anima- 
tion FERRAND  has  resumed  his  air  of  cynical 
detachment,  and  now  stands  apart  with  arms 
folded,  watching. 

WELLWYN.  Feeling  better,  my  child? 
MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes. 

WELLWYN.  That's  good.  That's  good.  Now,  how 
was  it?  Um? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  dunno.  [She  shivers.]  I  was  standin' 
here  just  now  when  you  was  talkin',  and  when  I  heard 
'im,  it  cam'  over  me  to  do  it — like. 


ACT  m  THE  PIGEON  73 

WELLWTN.  Ah,  yes  7  know. 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  didn't  seem  no  good  to  meself  nor 
any  one.  But  when  I  got  in  the  water,  I  didn't  want 
to  any  more.  It  was  cold  in  there. 

WELLWTN.  Have  you  been  having  such  a  bad  time 
of  it? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes.  And  listenin'  to  him  upset  me. 
[She  signs  vrith  her  head  at  FERRAND.]  I  feel  better  now 
I've  been  in  the  water.  [She  smiles  and  shivers. 

WELLWTN.  There,  there!  Shivery?  Like  to  walk 
up  and  down  a  little? 

[They  begin  walking  together  up  and  dovm. 

WELLWTN.  Beastly  when  your  head  goes  under? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes.  It  frightened  me.  I  thought  I 
wouldn't  come  up  again. 

WELLWTN.  I  know — sort  of  world  without  end, 
wasn't  it?  What  did  you  think  of,  um? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  wished  I  'adn't  jumped — an'  I 
thought  of  my  baby — that  died — and — [in  a  rather  sur- 
prised voice]  and  I  thought  of  d-dancin'. 

[Her  mouth  quivers,  her  face  puckers,  she  gives  a 
choke  and  a  little  sob. 

WELLWTN.  [Stopping  and  stroking  her.]  There,  there 
—there! 

[For  a  moment  her  face  is  buried  in  his  sleeve,  then 
she  recovers  herself. 

MBS.  MEGAN.  Then  'e  got  hold  o'  me,  an*  pulled  me 
out. 

WELLWTN.  Ah!  what  a  comfort — um? 

MBS.  MEGAN.  Yes.    The  water  got  into  me  mouth. 


74  THE   PIGEON  ACT  in 

[They  walk  again.]  I  wouldn't  have  gone  to  do  it  but 
for  him.  [She  looks  towards  FEERAND.]  His  talk  made 
me  feel  all  funny,  as  if  people  wanted  me  to. 

WELLWYN.  My  dear  child!  Don't  think  such 
things!  As  if  anyone  would ! 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Stolidly.]  I  thought  they  did.  They 
used  to  look  at  me  so  sometimes,  where  I  was  before  I 
ran  away — I  couldn't  stop  there,  you  know. 

WELLWYN.  Too  cooped-up? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes.  No  life  at  all,  it  wasn't — not 
after  sellin'  flowers,  I'd  rather  be  doin'  what  I  am. 

WELLWYN.  Ah!  Well — it's  all  over,  now!  How 
d'you  feel — eh?  Better? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes.     I  feels  all  right  now. 

[She  sits  up  again  on  the  little  stool  before  the  fire. 

WELLWYN.  No  shivers,  and  no  aches;  quite  comfy? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  Yes. 

WELLWYN.  That's  a  blessing.  All  well,  now,  Con- 
stable— thank  you! 

CONSTABLE.  [Who  has  remained  discreetly  apart  at 
the  door — cordially.]  First  rate,  sir!  That's  capital! 
[He  approaches  and  scrutinises  MRS.  MEGAN.]  Right  as 
rain,  eh,  my  girl? 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Shrinlcing  a  little.]  Yes. 

CONSTABLE.  That's  fine.  Then  I  think  perhaps,  for 
'er  sake,  sir,  the  sooner  we  move  on  and  get  her  a  change 
o'  clothin',  the  better. 

WELLWYN.  Oh!  don't  bother  about  that — I'll  send 
round  for  my  daughter — we'll  manage  for  her  here. 


ACT  ra  THE  PIGEON  75 

CONSTABLE.  Very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure,  sir.  But 
[with  embarrassment]  she  seems  all  right.  She'll  get 
every  attention  at  the  station. 

WELLWYN.  But  I  assure  you,  we  don't  mind  at  all; 
we'll  take  the  greatest  care  of  her. 

CONSTABLE.  [Still  more  embarrassed,]  Well,  sir,  of 

course,  I'm  thinkin'  of I'm  afraid  I  can't  depart 

from  the  usual  course. 

WELLWYN.  [Sharply.]  What!  But— oh!  No!  No! 
That'll  be  all  right,  Constable!  That'll  be  all  right! 
I  assure  you. 

CONSTABLE.  [With  more  decision.]  I'll  have  to  charge 
her,  sir. 

WELLWYN.  Good  God!  You  don't  mean  to  say  the 
poor  little  thing  has  got  to  be 

CONSTABLE.  [Consulting  ivitk  him.]  Well,  sir,  we 
can't  get  over  the  facts,  can  we?  There  it  is!  You 
know  what  sooicide  amounts  to — it's  an  awkward  job. 

WELLWYN.  [Calming  himself  with  an  effort.]  But  look 

here,  Constable,  as  a  reasonable  man This  poor 

wretched  little  girl — you  know  what  that  life  means 
better  than  anyone!  Why!  It's  to  her  credit  to  try 
and  jump  out  of  it! 

[The  CONSTABLE  shakes  his  head. 

WELLWYN.  You  said  yourself  her  best  friends  couldn't 
wish  her  better!  [Dropping  his  voice  still  more.]  Every- 
body feels  it!  The  Vicar  was  here  a  few  minutes  ago 
saying  the  very  same  thing — the  Vicar,  Constable! 
[The  CONSTABLE  shakes  his  head.]  Ah!  now,  look  here, 
I  know  something  of  her.  Nothing  can  be  done  with 


76  THE  PIGEON  ACT  ra 

her.     We  all  admit  it.     Don't  you  see?    Well,  then 
hang  it — you  needn't  go  and  make  fools  of  us  all  by 

FEBBAND.  Monsieur,  it  is  the  first  of  April. 

CONSTABLE.  [With  a  sharp  glance  at  him.]  Can't 
neglect  me  duty,  sir;  that's  impossible. 

WELLWYN.  Look  here!  She — slipped.  She's  been 
telling  me.  Come,  Constable,  there's  a  good  fellow. 
May  be  the  making  of  her,  this. 

CONSTABLE.  I  quite  appreciate  your  good  'eart,  sir, 
an'  you  make  it  very  'ard  for  me — but,  come  now!  I 
put  it  to  you  as  a  gentleman,  would  you  go  back  on  yer 
duty  if  you  was  me? 

[WELLWYN  raises  his  hat,  and  plunges  his  fingers 
through  and  through  his  hair. 

WELLWYN.  Well!    God    in    heaven!    Of    all    the 

d d  topsy-turvy !    Not  a  soul  in  the  world 

wants  her  alive — and  now  she's  to  be  prosecuted  for 
trying  to  be  where  everyone  wishes  her. 

CONSTABLE.  Come,  sir,  come!    Be  a  man! 

[Throughout  all  this  MRS.  MEGAN  has  sat  stolidly 
before  the  fire,  but  as  FERBAND  suddenly  steps 
forward  she  looks  up  at  him. 

FERRAND.  Do  not  grieve,  Monsieur!    This  will  give 

her  courage.    There  is  nothing  that  gives  more  courage 

than  to  see  the  irony  of  things.  [He  touches  MRS. 

MEGAN'S  shoulder,]  Go,  my  child;  it  will  do  you  good. 

[MRS.  MEGAN  rises,  and  looks  at  him  dazedly. 

CONSTABLE.  [Coming  forward,  and  taking  her  by  the 
hand.]  That's  my  good  lass.  Come  along!  We  won't 
hurt  you. 


ACT  ra  THE  PIGEON  77 

MRS.  MEGAN.  I  don't  want  to  go.  They'll  stare  at 
me. 

CONSTABLE.  [Comforting.]  Not  they!  I'll  see  to 
that. 

WELLWTN.  [Very  upset.]  Take  her  in  a  cab,  Con- 
stable, if  you  must — for  God's  sake!  [He  pulls  out  a 
shitting.]  Here! 

CONSTABLE.  [Taking  the  shilling.]  I  will,  sir,  cer- 
tainly. Don't  think  I  want  to 

WELLWTN.  No,  no,  I  know.    You're  a  good  sort. 

CONSTABLE.  [Comfortable.]  Don't  you  take  on,  sir. 
It's  her  first  try;  they  won't  be  hard  on  'er.  Like  as 
not  only  bind  'er  over  in  her  own  recogs  not  to  do  it 
again.  Come,  my  dear. 

MBS.  MEGAN.  [Trying  to  free  herself  from  the  police- 
man's cloak.]  I  want  to  take  this  off .    It  looks  so  funny. 
[As  she  speaks  the  door  is  opened  by  ANN;  behind 
whom  is  dimly  seen  the  form  of  old  TrasoN,  still 
heading  the  curious  persons. 

ANN.  [Looking  from  one  to  the  other  in  amaze.]  What 
is  it?  What's  happened?  Daddy! 

FERRAND.  [Out  of  the  silence.]  It  is  nothing,  Ma'- 
moiselle!  She  has  failed  to  drown  herself.  They  run 
her  in  a  little. 

WELLWTN.  Lend  her  your  jacket,  my  dear;  she'll 
catch  her  death. 

[ANN,  feeling  MBS.  MEGAN'S  arm,  strips  off  her 
jacket,  and  helps  her  into  it  without  a  word. 

CONSTABLE.  [Donning  his  cloak.}  Thank  you,  Miss — 
very  good  of  you,  I'm  sure. 


78  THE  PIGEON  ACT  ra 

MRS.  MEGAN.  [Mazed.]  It's  warm! 

[She  gives  them  all  a  last  half-smiling  look,  and 

passes  with  the  CONSTABLE  through  the  doorway. 

FEBKAND.  That  makes  the  third  of  us,  Monsieur. 

We  are  not  in  luck.     To  wish  us  dead,  it  seems,  is  easier 

than  to  let  us  die. 

[He  looks  at  ANN,  who  is  standing  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  her  father.  WELLWYN  has  taken  from 
his  pocket  a  visiting  card. 

WELLWYN.  [To  FERRAND.]  Here  quick;  take  this, 
run  after  her!  When  they've  done  with  her  tell  her  to 
come  to  us. 

FERRAND.  [Taking  the  card,  and  reading  the  address.] 
"No.  7,  Haven  House,  Flight  Street!"  Rely  on  me, 
Monsieur — I  will  bring  her  myself  to  call  on  you.  Au 
revoir,  mon  bon  Monsieur! 

[He  bends  over  WELLWYN'S  hand;  then,  with  a  bow 
to  ANN  goes  out;  his  tattered  figure  can  be  seen 
through    the    window,    passing    in   the    wind. 
WELLWYN  turns  back  to  the  fire.     The  figure  of 
TIMSON  advances  into  the  doorway,  no  longer 
holding  in  either  hand  a  waterproof  leg-piece. 
TIMSON.  [In  a  croaky  voice.]  Sir! 
WELLWYN.  What — you,  Timson? 
TIMSON.  On  me  larst  legs,  sir.    'Ere!    You  can  see 
'em  for  yerself !     Shawn't  trouble  yer  long. 

WELLWYN.  [After  a  long  and  desperate  stare.]  Not 
now — Timson — not  now!  Take  this!  [He  takes  out 
another  card,  and  hands  it  to  TIMSON.]  Some  other  time. 


ACT  ra  THE  PIGEON  79 

TIMSON.  [Taking  the  card.]  Yer  new  address!    You 

are  a  gen'leman.  [He  lurches  slowly  away. 

[ANN  shuts  tJie  street  door  and  sets  her  back  against 

it.     The  rumble  of  the  approaching  van  is  heard 

outside.     It  ceases. 

ANN.  [In  a  fateful  voice.]  Daddy!  [They  stare  at  each 
other.]  Do  you  know  what  you've  done?  Given  your 
card  to  those  six  rotters. 

WELLWYN.  [With  a  blank  stare.]  Six? 
ANN.  [Staring  round  the  naked  room.]  What  was  the 
good  of  this? 

WELLWYN.  [Following  her  eyes — very  gravely.}  Ann! 
It  is  stronger  than  me. 

[Without  a  word  ANN  opens  the  door,  and  walks 
straight  out.  With  a  heavy  sighf  WELLWYN 
sinks  down  on  the  little  stool  before  the  fire.  The 
three  humble-men  come  in. 

CHIEF  HUMBLE-MAN.  [In  an  attitude  of  expectation.] 
This  is  the  larst  of  it,  sir. 
WELLWYN.  Oh!  Ah!  yes! 

[He  gives  them  money;  then  something  seems  to 
strike  him,  and  he  exhibits  certain  signs  of  vex- 
ation. Suddenly  he  recovers,  looks  from  one  to 
the  other,  and  then  at  the  tea  things.  A  faint 
smile  comes  on  his  face. 
WELLWYN.  You  can  finish  the  decanter. 

[He  goes  out  in  haste. 

CHIEF  HUMBLE-MAN.  [Clinking  the  coins.]  Third 
time  of  arskin'!  April  fool!  Not  'arf!  Good  old 
pigeon! 


80  THE  PIGEON  ACT  m 

SECOND  HUMBLE-MAN.  'Uman  being,  7  call  'im. 
CHIEF  HUMBLE-MAN.  [Taking  the  three  glasses  from 
the  last  packing-case,  and  pouring  very  equally  into  them.] 
That's  right.    Tell  you  wot,  I'd  never  'a  touched  this 
unless  Vd  told  me  to,  I  wouldn't — not  with  'im. 

SECOND  HUMBLE-MAN.  Ditto  to  that!    This  is  a  bit 
of  orl  right!  [Raising  his  glass.]  Good  luck! 
THIRD  HUMBLE-MAN.  Same  'ere! 

[Simultaneously  they  place  their  lips  smartly 
against  the  liquor,  and  at  once  let  fall  their  faces 
and  their  glasses. 

CHIEF  HUMBLE-MAN.  [With  great  solemnity.]  Crikey! 
Bill!    Teat  .  .  .    'E's  got  us! 

The  stage  is  blotted  dark. 
Curtain. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

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